


Folie à deux

by sodium_amytal



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1990s, Bullying, Cliques, Complex Emotions, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, First Love, Graphic Violence, Guns, High School, M/M, Marijuana, Period-Typical Everything, Rape, Slice of Life, Staring into the abyss, Torture, dark themes, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:42:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 86,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26976052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodium_amytal/pseuds/sodium_amytal
Summary: When sullen teen outcast Syd meets the bubbly, outgoing exchange student Taehyun, it should be a match made in hell; Taehyun has all the irritating qualities of the popular kids who have made Syd’s school years miserable. But instead a friendship blossoms between them, then a romance, and Syd’s lonely life begins to evolve. His self-esteem rises, the cloud of his depression lifts, and he actually makes friends.But just as Taehyun isn’t what he seems to be, neither are the self-proclaimed Rebels in Syd’s new social circle. Soon, Syd is drawn into a wicked game more sinister than he could ever imagine. To survive, he must contend with the darkness, and understand that friends are sometimes at the heart of that darkness.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 40
Kudos: 17
Collections: Iddy Iddy Bang Bang! 2020





	1. Craze (August 1998)

_"I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other."_ \- Mary Shelley, _Frankenstein (_ film adaptation)

* * *

_August 3rd, 1998_

Lee Taehyun arrives two weeks before the start of the school year. Syd sits with his mother at the Denver International Airport, waiting for Taehyun’s flight to land. He should probably hate hosting an exchange student—being an only child, he never learned to share—but his mother sold him on the idea.

“I think it will be good for you,” she said one night over dinner. Syd rolled his eyes half-heartedly; he appreciated his mother’s attempts to properly socialize him, but it was still embarrassing, regardless of whether anyone was around to hear it. “You could use a friend, especially one your age.”

He was certain this exchange student idea was fostered by his mother watching him stay inside all summer. While the neighborhood kids took to the local arcades, movie theaters, and rec centers, Syd preferred staying home and watching TV or shooting demons in _Doom_ on his PC. His mother seemed to see this hermitage as a sign of something troubling; even when he told her he was talking to people online, she balked. “Those people could be anyone! Perverts or killers looking for someone too trusting.”

“I think you’ve been watching too much Oprah,” Syd said, but the die was cast in Misty Reed’s mind. Still, even she knew forcing Syd into social situations was a lost cause. Forcing a sixteen-year-old to do anything is nigh impossible without a court order.

The plane appears, taxiing to the gate outside the enormous window facing the runway. Misty clutches Syd’s arm. “Ah! He’s here! I’m so nervous!” 

Taehyun called about two hours ago during his layover in Dallas, just as the flight was boarding. She and Syd have been waiting here for around forty-five minutes. Syd doesn’t mind; he enjoys the sinister undertones of the murals strewn across the walls. And there’s something uniquely freeing about airports. You could walk up to a ticket counter, buy a ticket, and go anywhere. Start life over in a whole new place. That seems to be exactly what Taehyun did, and Syd already kind of envies him.

Eventually the passengers deplane, and amongst the throng of travelers and briefcase-carrying businessmen, Syd sees him. Taehyun looks just as he does in the photo Misty received from the exchange program: shaggy brown hair, a round face, wearing that stupid jean jacket with ironed-on patches of bands he probably doesn’t even know. He’s carrying a backpack slung over one shoulder. Misty spots him and waves him over. “Yoo-hoo! Taehyun! Over here!”

Syd sort of slumps in his seat. His mother has always been this way, loud and entirely oblivious to the world around her. Syd wonders what Taehyun’s parents are like, if he too is embarrassed by them.

Taehyun spots them—this skinny, boisterous woman and her tall, lanky son—and his face bursts into a smile. It’s a very gum-heavy smile, Syd notices, and his teeth are strangely perfect. Taehyun jogs over to Misty, where is he wrapped in one of her motherly hugs. “Oh, it’s so good to finally meet you!” she says, taking hold of his shoulders and getting a good look at him. She brushes his dark fringe out of his eyes. “I’m Misty, and this is Syd.”

“Hey,” Syd offers, unenthused. 

Taehyun smiles at him. He bows, his left hand crossing his body while he extends his right. Must be a cultural thing. “Nice to meet you.” Syd accepts his proffered hand, because it’s what you do.

Misty corrals her boys, and they’re moving through the glistening airport, heading for the baggage claim. “Tell me about your flight. Were you able to sleep? I can never sleep on planes without a sleeping pill.”

“I slept okay,” Taehyun says. “It was a long flight from Seoul to Dallas. Twelve hours, I think. I fell asleep in the dark, and when I woke up it was morning. The second flight was much shorter.”

“Oh, good, I was hoping you could get some rest,” Misty says. “I thought we could go out for lunch if you’re not too jet-lagged.”

“That would be nice. There was food available on my first flight, but it was too expensive.”

“You haven’t eaten for over twelve hours?” Syd says in disbelief.

“I ate the free snacks on the plane.”

“You must be starving.” Syd can’t imagine going that long with only a few tiny bags of airplane pretzels as sustenance.

While they wait for Taehyun’s luggage to come tumbling down the baggage carousel, Syd asks, “So do you actually listen to any of those bands?” He points to the patch on Taehyun’s jacket, which is surrounded by badges for Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, the Beatles, and the Rolling Stones.

“I do. There’s a record shop in Seoul that sells imports from the US. I discovered a lot of music that way.”

“Looks like you need to update your discography,” Syd says. At Taehyun’s confused expression, he clarifies, “Most of these bands are kind of old.”

“Music doesn’t have an expiration date,” Taehyun says before grabbing his bags, which have appeared on the stainless-steel rack. 

Misty appears at his side to take the bags for herself. “We’ll get those for you,” she says, then hands one of the bags to Syd. It’s a green duffel bag that reminds him of his father’s old Air Force knapsack.

Syd and Taehyun sit side-by-side in the backseat of Misty’s Plymouth van. It’s a horrid, beige blight on wheels, but at least it doesn’t have wood paneling. Syd toys with the cord of the headphones hanging around his neck. He brought his Walkman along, opting to listen to one of his homemade mixtapes rather than the smooth jazz always playing in airports. He considers slipping his headphones on again, frustrated by his inability to create conversation, but Misty would probably scold him for being unsociable. 

He hears the tinny sound of Filter’s “Hey Man Nice Shot” flowing through the earphones. He rewinds the tape, resetting the song back to the beginning, and offers the headphones to Taehyun. “Your introduction to modern rock starts now. Take a listen.”

Taehyun does, perhaps more out of politeness than genuine interest, but his head bobs along with the music. When the drop comes, he grins, as though discovering some kind of wonderful secret. “I like this,” he says with a hint of surprise. “Who is it?”

“Filter. They’ve got a lot of killer songs. This one’s pretty cool. It’s based on this politician dude who shot himself on TV during a press conference.”

Misty sighs from the driver’s seat. “Syd, don’t be morbid.”

“What is ‘morbid’?” Taehyun wonders.

“She thinks I’m ‘obsessed with death,’” Syd supplies, making air quotation marks with his fingers.

“A good death is honorable.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not the good ones I’m interested in.”

“Don’t show Taehyun any of that garbage,” Misty warns him. “You’ll warp his brain.”

Syd thinks that’s bullshit; he’s been watching _Faces of Death_ and viewing gore websites for years, and he’s not a homicidal maniac. Sure, he has the occasional urge to kill everyone at school, but what teenager doesn’t? 

Upon further consideration, he’ll concede that his mother mighthave a point. 

They settle on pizza for lunch, upon Taehyun’s request. “I’ve never had pizza,” he says while they’re sitting in the restaurant’s booth. “I’m excited.”

“Never? That’s tragic.” Syd can’t believe a human being could live this long without tasting a proper pizza. “No wonder you wanted to come to America.”

Taehyun chuckles, as though that will transform the comment into something no longer at his expense. “There were many reasons.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Syd knows enough not to poke at that. 

“Your English is wonderful,” Misty says. “Did you learn at school?”

“I took basic classes, but mostly I learned from American TV shows. I watched a lot of _Friends_ , _Seinfeld_ , and shows like that. My mother has a deep interest in Western media.”

“What do your parents do?”

“My father owns a restaurant in Seoul. My mother is a seamstress.”

“Any siblings?” Misty’s asking all the questions now, but they’re surface-level things in which Syd has no interest.

“I have an older brother, Chanyeol,” Taehyun says. “He wants to be a dancer like Michael Jackson. My parents wished he had focused on his education, so I guess that is why they let me come here, because I want to study hard and become a doctor.”

A native speaker might talk fast and stumble over their words, dropping ‘um’s and ‘uh’s in to fill space, but Taehyun speaks slowly, as if carefully selecting his words. Thank God he’s not one of those vapid morons at school who fills the gaps between their words with ‘like’s. 

“You could go to med school in Korea,” Syd muses. “Why here?”

Taehyun sighs, as though about to reveal something he would rather keep secret. “Since last year, South Korea is in a bit of a financial crisis. The value of our _won_ dropped. Lots of large companies collapsed, driving up interest rates, and that drove away international investors. The economy is a mess right now.”

“And since college is expensive, they sent you here in hopes of a scholarship?” Syd asks.

Taehyun sort of shrugs. “I guess you could say that.”

The pizza arrives, and everyone digs in. Taehyun makes a shameless groaning noise after biting into a slice. 

“So what do you actually like?” Syd asks. “Besides music.”

Taehyun chews it over, only speaking when his mouth is no longer full. Table manners must be a big thing over there. “I like video games. Do you have Super Nintendo?”

“I have a PlayStation,” Syd brags.

Taehyun’s eyes go wide. “No kidding?”

“And I have a computer. With _Doom_.” Syd enjoys how easily impressed this kid is, enjoys that he himself is in any way impressive. He has always been no one special, floating his way through social circles as a ghost, offering nothing of substance to any kind of relationship. _Doom_ , of course, runs on pretty much anything—Syd could probably program it into a TI-83—but for once he feels like a god, Taehyun’s ambassador into the daunting world of American culture. 

“I’ve only used computers at school. I could have saved up for one, but I would rather buy music,” Taehyun says.

“I’ve got a whole binder full of CDs you need to listen to,” Syd tells him around a bite of pizza. “If you haven’t heard KMFDM or the Smashing Pumpkins, you aren’t living right.”

“Stop, he has good taste,” Misty says, tugging on the side of Taehyun’s jacket emblazoned with patches for ‘60s stoner rock bands. “I have a lot of records you could listen to,” she says to Taehyun. “Steely Dan, Phil Collins, the Smiths…”

“The Smiths are pretty good,” Syd admits, because he has to highlight the rare moments in which his mother is right about music.

“I have a lot to listen to,” Taehyun says, as though this is some great endeavor he has taken upon himself.

* * *

When they make it home, Misty shows Taehyun the guest room in which he’ll be staying. The room is overwhelmingly neutral, with thick, beige carpet and off-white walls. The twin-size bed sits low to the ground, decorated with white pillows and a blue duvet. There is a small nightstand on one side of the bed, covered with magazines, paperback novels, and a lamp. Above the headboard hangs a rather ugly abstract art print Misty bought at a flea market a few years ago. Syd has always wondered if this room was intended for the sister or brother he never had.

“You live here now, so if you want to hang up pictures or anything like that, you can,” Misty tells Taehyun. “I want you to feel at home here.”

Taehyun nods, beginning the task of unloading the contents of his luggage into the wooden dresser. “Thank you, Mrs. Reed.”

“Just call me Misty. Or Mom.” She laughs. “I’m just kidding. Unless you want to.”

Taehyun gives her a polite smile, and Syd thinks they’re going to get along just fine if the kid can tell when Mom’s being embarrassing.

Misty leaves them alone then, and Syd looks around at the bland room. “I think my mom always wanted another kid,” he says, leaning against the side of the dresser while Taehyun neatly places his socks and underwear into the top drawer. 

“Where is your father?” Taehyun asks.

“In Kansas City.” Taehyun gives him a confused look. “He doesn’t live with us anymore,” Syd explains. “My parents got divorced when I was thirteen.”

“Oh.”

Syd frowns. “Don’t look at me like that. Do people not get divorced in Korea?”

“Saving face is very important in our culture. Most couples are arranged, which makes divorce an insult to the matchmaker, who is usually the couple’s parents.”

“That sounds like it sucks. Were your parents arranged?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I didn’t know people still did that.”

“I think you misunderstand. The parents of both families just introduce two people to each other for a date. The couple can decide if they want to keep dating. It’s not a forced marriage like you’re thinking.”

“I guess that’s not so bad,” Syd muses. “But we don’t really do that here.”

Taehyun chuckles. “I know. I watch TV. I learned about a lot of your customs that way. Though some old habits are hard to shake.”

“I guess,” Syd says, unsure of how to proceed with this line of conversation. “You wanna see the basement? It’s where I keep the PlayStation.”

Taehyun abandons the task of settling in and follows Syd downstairs. Over the past few years, Syd has cultivated the basement as his hang-out, a room that has almost replaced his bedroom entirely. There’s a futon, a small coffee table where he often sets his meals and game controllers, a 13-inch combo TV and VCR unit, stacks of VHS tapes, and the PlayStation. Pictures cover the walls, mostly the fold-out mini-posters torn from the middle of gaming and music magazines.

“Wow,” Taehyun marvels, like he’s Alice stepping into Wonderland. “This is all your stuff?”

“Sort of. My mom keeps some junk down here in bins. And there’s the washer and dryer, and the cat’s litter box is over there,” Syd says, gesturing to the far corner where a covered litter pan sits. 

“You have a cat?” Taehyun looks around as if searching for the four-legged critter. “What kind?”

“Just… white, I guess. My mom and I adopted her a couple years ago. Her name’s Arlene. I named her after a character in the _Doom_ books, but don’t tell my mom. She thinks I’m just a really big Garfield fan.” Syd laughs to himself.

Taehyun’s brow furrows, like he’s trying to figure that one out.

“Garfield has a sort-of girlfriend cat named Arlene,” Syd clarifies. He forgets Taehyun doesn’t have an encyclopedic knowledge of Western pop culture.

“Oh.” Taehyun’s still looking for the cat. “I guess she’s hiding.”

“She’ll show up eventually.” Syd flops onto the futon.

Taehyun joins him, tentative, as if expecting an invitation to sit. “What does your mother do for a living?”

“She teaches kindergarten. I guess it’s less ‘teaching’ and more ‘supervising,’ but yeah.” Syd powers on the PlayStation. “I’ve got _Mortal Kombat 3_. Wanna play?”

He feared he’d have to teach Taehyun how to play, but the kid quickly picks up the mechanics, button-mashing his way into a few wins. “This is so cartoonish,” he says with a laugh at the game’s over-the-top gore. 

“Wait ‘til you see the fatalities. You can actually kill the other guy if you press the right buttons.”

During the next round, Taehyun lets Syd win and uppercut his character into a pit of spinning blades, resulting in a bloody explosion of pixelated gore, skulls, and ribcages.

“Oh, gross!” Taehyun exclaims, laughing. His laugh is infectious, and Syd hears himself chuckling along with him. 

They spend hours sampling Syd’s menu of games, playing _Duke Nukem_ , _NBA Jam_ , and _Twisted Metal 2_ until Misty’s voice sounds from the top of the stairs. “It’s getting late, you two. Anyone want dinner?”

Upstairs, they finish off the rest of the pizza from lunch. The dining room is a small section of the kitchen, featuring a round table that comfortably seats three. Above the table hangs a calming blue glass pendant light. Misty drinks a Cosmopolitan out of a wine glass; Syd opts for Mountain Dew, and Taehyun sips orange soda.

“Since you’re a Pink Floyd fan,” Misty says to Taehyun, “did you know I named Syd after Syd Barrett?”

“You always mention that like it’s charming,” Syd says. “He went nuts and became a recluse. It’s like you’re setting me up for failure.”

“Oh, stop. You always focus on the negative. He was a musical genius,” Misty says. “I don’t think the tragedy of his life should outweigh the positive.” She looks at Taehyun. “Sydney works for a girl or boy name, and he wants to split hairs.”

Taehyun seems to be thinking this over. “My name can also be used for a girl. It means great and virtuous.”

Taehyun’s parents have high hopes for him, apparently. 

After dinner, Taehyun excuses himself for a shower. Syd lingers at the table with Misty, who’s polishing off another Cosmo. “So, what do you think of him?” she asks.

Syd shrugs. “I thought he would be a huge dork, but he’s okay.”

“Most people are, if you get to know them.”

Syd knows where she’s going with this and doesn’t want to have that conversation again, the one where he tries to remind his mother what high school is actually like, because she seems to have forgotten in the twenty years or so it’s been in her rear-view mirror. No one fucking likes the weird kids, he has told her time after time, and perhaps the only reason he seems to have a rapport with Taehyun is because the kid himself is a little weird. Be it weirdness born from his interests or his status as a foreign exchange student, he’ll still be branded as a loser within the walls of Tanner High School.

Syd supposes he will take on the role of Taehyun’s protector when school starts, and isn’t that a grim fucking thought, because Syd is in no shape to protect anyone; he’s too skinny and unathletic to go toe-to-toe with even the laziest jock, despite his height advantage.

“He’s nice, at least,” Syd offers in acquiescence. 

“You could learn a thing or two from him,” Misty says, in that teasing way of hers. Syd rolls his eyes half-heartedly. 

Arlene comes sniffing around, curious in the way cats are. She rubs against Misty’s legs, and Misty offers the cat headscratches. 

“I wonder if Taehyun likes animals,” Misty says.

“He seems like more of a dog person.”

“We’ll have to see what happens when Arlene warms up to him.”

Later that night, when the house has fallen still and quiet, Syd sits at the computer in the living room, playing _Doom_ on a private server with some online friends. He has no idea who these people are in real life—according to Misty, they could be child molesters—but he hasn’t received any creepy, intrusive messages yet, so Syd figures they’re all right. Of course, he has never mentioned he’s a sixteen-year-old high school student, so who knows? 

The computer sits facing the living room, so online privacy is nonexistent, unless he can block the screen with his body long enough to switch to a less incriminating window. Although privacy is less of a concern when he’s playing computer games – it’s the shock and gore sites Misty takes issue with, and he wonders if she laments why he can’t be caught looking at porn like a normal teenager. 

Arlene is curled in Syd’s lap, snoring in a deep sleep. Syd hears the bare slap of footsteps against kitchen tile and turns in his chair, expecting to see Misty coming to scold him for staying up so late, but it’s only Taehyun, dressed in striped pajama pants and a white T-shirt.

“What’s up?” Syd asks.

“I came out to get water. Are you playing a game?”

“No, I’m doing my taxes,” Syd jokes, cracking a grin when Taehyun appears to understand sarcasm. “C’mere, and I’ll show you.”

Taehyun fills a glass with water before joining Syd at the computer. There isn’t much room for a second person here, so Taehyun sits on the arm of the nearest couch. Arlene stirs, notices the presence of a stranger, and leaps off Syd’s lap. She goes scurrying into the darkness, and Taehyun says, “Aww, don’t run, kitty.”

“She’ll warm up to you eventually.” Syd scoots closer to the screen now that he has more room.

“What game is that?”

“ _Doom_. You go through mazes and shoot demons. It’s awesome. You can make your own maps too, or play with someone else’s.” Syd blows up a demon with a few keyboard taps.

“Do you make your own?”

“Sometimes. I just started learning a couple weeks ago. It would be pretty cool to make games for a living, don’t you think?”

Taehyun watches Syd blast demons on-screen. “Is that what you want to do?”

“Either that or clean up crime scenes.”

“I think your mother was right when she said you are morbid,” Taehyun observes.

Syd shrugs. “Somebody’s gotta do it, right? And it’s kind of fucked up to let the family of a suicide victim clean up the mess.” 

“Is that not a family’s responsibility to one another?”

“I don’t know, dude. If I blew my brains out, I’d rather have some stranger pick my teeth out of the drywall than have my mom do it, y’know?”

Taehyun seems to be thinking this over; his eyes are bright with reflections of the computer screen. “Sounds like you’ve thought about it.”

This strikes Syd as something his mother would say, condescending and well-meaning. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not me,” Taehyun says, shaking his head.

“You said your country was in the financial shitter. Your parents could lose their jobs.”

“We would still have each other. Human connections are much more valuable than money.”

As much as Syd wants to joke that the kid sounds like a fortune cookie, there is a startling amount of profundity in his statement. Without his mother, Syd would be well and truly alone; it’s taken Taehyun’s appearance in his life for Syd to realize how deeply loneliness scares him.

* * *

_August 4th, 1998_

In the morning, Misty has breakfast ready on the stovetop—a skillet full of hashbrowns, bacon, eggs, and cheese. While the three of them eat, Taehyun announces, “I want to go out today. Is there anything fun to do here?”

“There’s lots of fun things to do in Denver!” Misty says. “Syd, why don’t you take Taehyun into the city and show him around? I’ll give you some spending money.”

Syd almost protests at being volunteered against his will, but he can’t complain if he’s getting paid to be Taehyun’s ambassador. And it will give the two of them a parent-free chance to talk; Syd thinks Taehyun might come out of his shell a bit when there are no authority figures around. Since Korean culture puts respect for elders on a pedestal, it makes sense Taehyun would be more reserved when older folks are around.

“Okay, cool,” Syd agrees. “There’s this awesome comic, game and movie shop I go to. It’s like being in someone’s private collection of cool stuff, except you can buy things.”

An hour later, they’re walking through the LoDo district. The weather is perfect for a walk through the city—the mid-afternoon sun is high overhead, with puffy clouds decorating the sky like paint smears. They walk past loft apartments, municipal buildings, restaurants, a barbershop, a gym, and a florist. “It looks so nice and neat,” Taehyun observes. “In some of our cities, we have power lines criss-crossing everywhere.”

Syd never really noticed the absence of visible power lines here before. “Maybe they run them underground here.”

“Not all of Seoul is like that. Just some places.”

“Maybe it’s a money thing. Richer cities can afford to hide the wires underground.”

They pass by a luggage store, then the comic shop greets them at a street corner. The small storefront belies its size; on the inside, it is a multi-story wonder, cramming every bit of childhood and teenage ephemera into every shelf, wall, and crevice. James, the owner, looks up at them from an issue of X-Men. “Hey, Syd. You brought a friend!”

“This is Taehyun. He’s a Korean exchange student.”

James is in his late twenties and, in Syd’s eyes, is the epitome of cool. His glasses make him look like a nerd, but his arms fill the sleeves of his T-shirt, the tail of a tattoo peeking out. Syd has seen the entire tattoo before: it’s the iconic _Friday the 13th Part Four_ hockey mask with a knife jutting out from one eyehole. Seriously awesome. 

“Nice to meet you, Taehyun. You guys see anything you like, just give me a holler.”

Syd says they will and brings Taehyun upstairs where the movies are. With the recent introduction of the DVD format, VHS tapes are being phased out of most shops, offered at a discount in hopes of clearing the shelves for new technologies. While James has a fond nostalgia for the VHS format, he still discounts his tapes, albeit not as cheaply as places like Kmart. But the selection is where this shop really shines; James has VHS copies of movies not yet available on DVD, out-of-print features and hard-to-find films, even movies Blockbuster won’t carry.

“There must be every movie ever made in here,” Taehyun marvels. 

“Probably enough to keep you busy for a while, at least.” Syd’s favorite section is the wall of horror and exploitation films. James, a staunch believer that age restrictions on media are bullshit, lets him buy the tapes and sell them back later for a few dollars. It’s a measure born of necessity, since Syd doesn’t want to risk letting the tapes sit too long in his collection, lest Misty have questions. She would never go the Tipper Gore route and try to ban every grotesque film, but she’s still a parent, and Syd knows better than to flaunt his strange proclivities in front of her.

“What kind of movies do you like?” Syd wonders. 

“I suppose you mean American movies,” Taehyun says. “I liked _Back to the Future_. _Ferris Bueller_. _The Terminator_.”

“Fuck yeah, _Terminator_ is the shit. Have you seen _Terminator 2_?”

“It was okay,” Taehyun says with a shrug. “I liked _Aliens_.”

“ _Aliens_ fucking rules. I knew you had good taste.” 

“I like animated movies too. Disney and Don Bluth, that sort of thing,” Taehyun adds, as if in protest to Syd’s declaration of his good taste. “You probably think that’s for babies, though, huh?”

Syd feels caught off-guard by how direct Taehyun can be sometimes. “No, not really. I mean, I wouldn’t go around telling everyone I cried at Mufasa’s death in _The Lion King._ ”

“I cried too,” Taehyun admits, as though this is some great shame. “But I think that means a movie is good, if it can move you like that.”

Syd admires the artistic, macabre VHS covers of shitty slasher movies. “I wish movie covers still looked like this.” He takes _The Incredible Melting Man_ off the shelf to show Taehyun. The cover art boasts an artistic rendering of a man’s melting face, with one eyeball hanging out of its socket and the skull’s teeth exposed. “Now it’s just, like, the actors’ faces against a white or black background. Boring.”

“But less gruesome.”

“You’re really not into this shit, are you?” It never occurred to Syd that he would be unable to convince Taehyun to appreciate the things he himself holds dear. Is he a poor salesman for his passions, or will Taehyun simply not be swayed? Regardless, Syd feels a little lonelier.

Taehyun shrugs, makes a face Syd labels as his ‘not looking to offend’ face. “People don’t have to like the same things to be friends,” he says, and that’s as much of a blatant dismissal as Syd’s going to get from this guy.

“Alright, shit. How about we check out the music section?”

Downstairs are a few racks of tapes and CDs, mostly containing records by less radio-friendly bands. Syd has picked up numerous Nine Inch Nails, Marilyn Manson, and Rammstein albums here. Taehyun flips through the jewel cases; Syd catches him looking at White Zombie, Stone Temple Pilots, and Butthole Surfers. “Do you have any of these?” Taehyun asks.

“I have the White Zombie album. The others I don’t have anything by, except whatever songs of theirs I’ve taped off the radio. We can go through my CDs and tapes later, if you want. What do you want to do next? We could see a movie. I think the _X-Files_ movie is still showing.” Syd’s rambling, and he makes himself stop. He knows he’s pushing too hard to find a connection, and according to his mother, desperation is a turn-off.

“Okay.” Taehyun is so goddamn agreeable; Syd wonders if he geniunely doesn’t care what they do, or if he’s just being polite and letting Syd drag him all over town. 

Taehyun buys a Soundgarden compilation CD. Syd plays it in the car on the drive to the nearest movie theater. He’d almost forgotten how good Soundgarden is, having been distracted by more aggressive acts like Filter and Gravity Kills. 

The movie theater is about a ten-minute drive away. Syd buys the tickets, and Taehyun buys the snacks. “It’s the least I can do. You’ve been really nice, taking me places,” he explains as they find their seats at the back of the theater.

“Don’t sweat it. It’s nice to have someone to hang out with.”

“Don’t you have friends?” It sounds judgmental, but Syd knows Taehyun enough to know no cruelty is intended.

“Not really. I usually see movies alone. Or I go with my mom when she wants to see some dumb chick flick.”

“Now you have someone else to go with,” Taehyun says, smiling as he reaches for the popcorn. 

The movie itself is mediocre, a two-hour episode of the TV show. Syd’s seen the film before, when it hit theaters in early summer. Taehyun isn’t leaning over and asking ‘who is that?’ or ‘what’s going on?’ every few seconds, so Syd figures he’s familiar enough with the show.

This is good, right? They’re bonding, and Misty would be proud that Syd has finally made a friend. It might be inevitable that Taehyun will eventually drift into another social circle—be it other foreign exchange students, a group of studious try-hards, or some other subculture—but Syd hopes he can instill himself in Taehyun, enough so when the school year starts he won’t be easily lured away by other potential friends. 

Is that selfish? Maybe, but who cares? Taehyun will probably return to South Korea within a year or two when the economy stabilizes, and he’ll go on to make friends in college and adult life in general. But this is all Syd has right now, so he’s going to milk it for all it’s worth. 

After the movie, Syd takes them to a restaurant on the way home. “Something tells me you’ve never had Mexican food,” he says, pulling Taehyun inside the cozy cantina. It’s the beginning of the dinner crowd, and they’re seated in a booth near the back. Snug and intimate. 

Like a date.

The thought startles Syd, and he tucks it away to ruminate on later.

“I don’t know what any of this is,” Taehyun says as he scans the menu. His brow is furrowed in dismay. The menu doesn’t have pictures, which only adds to his confusion.

“It’s all beans, rice, and cheese in a tortilla. I usually get the chimichangas. Or the grilled fish tacos.”

Taehyun opts for the fish tacos; Syd tries the combo plate. His cherry cola comes with actual cherries on top. He takes a sip. Ambrosia. “You’re going to like it here in the US of A,” he tells Taehyun. “At least the food is good.”

“This is fun,” Taehyun says. “I admit I was scared to leave my country. Imagine leaving everything you know and going somewhere entirely alien. I’m afraid I will make a fool of myself.”

“What, at school?” Syd gives a dismissive handwave. “Forget it. If they give you shit, I’ll kick their ass.” Not that Syd would actually succeed, but he’s more willing to get his own ass kicked on the behalf of someone else.

Taehyun’s eyes widen. “You would do that for me?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Taehyun observes him, like he doubts Syd’s physical capability to kick the ass of anyone over ten years old, but he smiles like he appreciates the offer regardless. “That’s very kind of you.”

“If you say so. I just hate bullies.” And it feels nobler to partake in violence on someone else’s behalf rather than his own.

Taehyun’s still looking at him. Syd squirms, suddenly uncomfortable. “What?”

“Your eyes are two different colors,” Taehyun points out.

“Oh. Yeah.” It’s something Syd was teased for back in elementary school, though he’s grown used to seeing one blue eye and one green eye in the mirror. “I got it from my dad’s side.” He used to combat the teasing by saying he absorbed a twin in the womb because he was the strongest; most people left him alone after hearing that.

“What does your dad do?” Taehyun asks, as if that has any bearing on his heterochromia. Whatever, Syd can dish.

“He used to be the head honcho of a factory that makes plane parts, but I don’t know if he still has that job anymore.”

“How often do you see him?”

“He usually visits every Thanksgiving and Christmas. So you’ll probably get to meet him if he comes this year.”

“Do you like him?”

This question throws Syd off-guard. He’s always assumed that of course he still likes his dad post-divorce, but now that he has to think about it, does he really? “I guess. He’s still my dad. He didn’t hurt me, but he hurt my mom, so you can imagine I’m at somewhat of an emotional crossroads.”

Their food arrives, but it’s too hot to dig in right now, so they continue their conversation while their plates emit steam. “You feel like you should be mad at him for your mother’s sake?” Taehyun asks.

“Yeah, kind of. Not to sound like a wuss or anything, but I love my mom. So I want to be on her side, y’know? But I think about my dad, and how we used to go fishing at Sloan’s Lake, and I just feel bad for him.” 

“It must be difficult,” Taehyun says. Syd envies him; what must it be like to have an intact family unit? Granted, Taehyun seems to have traded financial security for parents who aren’t divorced, but that doesn’t stop Syd from wondering. 

“I feel like I’m committing some sort of crime,” Syd continues, the words falling out of him. “If I still like my dad, I’m betraying my mom. But if I stand by my mom’s side, I’m hurting my dad.” He has never talked about this with anyone. His mother is too biased to really listen to him about the subject, and Syd has never put much stock in the effectiveness of school counselors. “If I try to play both sides, I feel like I’m lying, even though I’m just being neutral.”

“I think it’s very unfair to force you to choose a side.”

“No one’s really forcing me, it just feels that way.”

They eat dinner while the sunset knifes through the blinds and casts the restaurant in an ethereal glow. Taehyun’s hair catches the light, giving him a halo around his head. His hair is a rich chestnut brown. Syd never noticed that before. He also never noticed how the light illuminates Taehyun’s face, giving him the appearance of some holy figure in a Renaissance painting. 

That’s not how guys look at other guys. Is it?

Syd feels a flush rising in his cheeks. He drops his gaze from Taehyun’s face, but now he’s looking at the swan-like curve of his neck, and _things_ are happening down below. But it doesn’t mean anything. He’s a teenager; a stiff breeze could get him hard, although knowing that doesn’t calm his boner down any. He squirms, crossing his legs so it won’t be visible underneath the table. Taehyun munches on tacos, oblivious to Syd’s moment of sexual confusion.

The rest of the evening should be awkward but isn’t. After dinner, they go home and watch _Event Horizon_ in the basement. Syd pays more attention to Taehyun than the movie. He is filled with the inexplicable urge to push his fingers through Taehyun’s hair. He wonders what it would be like to touch his arm or hold his hand. He must be going insane. These are ridiculous thoughts to have about another guy, let alone someone he’s going to be living with. 

But that doesn’t stop Syd from stealing glimpses at Taehyun, admiring the round shape of his nose and the dimples that form at the corner of his cheeks when something amuses him. Taehyun’s features are innocent and sweet, definitely not what Syd thinks about while masturbating that night.

* * *

Syd’s Journal - August 4th, 1998

_FUCK!!!!!! I think I have a crush. On A GUY!!! Like I wasn’t bully-meat already. UGH. Why can’t I just be fucking normal? I hate the preps and the jocks and all the fake fucking posers at school, but even I can see they’re happier than me. I used to think being yourself and being unique made you cool, because that’s what everyone tells you, right? But for all its faults, conformity seems to have its perks. No one gives you shit when you fit in, even if it’s at the expense of your own individuality. Maybe I should cut my hair and ditch the black clothes and look and act like everyone else._

_But it would fucking kill me to fake a smile and pretend to give a shit about school sports or Britney Spears or Backstreet Boys or whatever the fuck those idiots are into. Just when I find someone who’s not an asshole, he has to go and turn me gay, or at least give me a shit-ton of sexual confusion._

_Maybe I’m just confusing friend feelings for crush feelings. It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend, it makes sense I could confuse the two, right? Maybe this is what having a friend is like, and I’m just overreacting._

_Except you don’t wonder what your friends look like naked._

_Fuck. I should just kill myself now so I don’t have to think about it anymore._

* * *

Syd’s Journal - August 7th, 1998

_I went bowling with Taehyun today. Bowling is pretty much the thing you do when you’ve run out of things to do, but he thought it would be fun, and it’s nice to look at him, nice to be with him. (Gaaaaaay)_

_Except for those fucking bitches. Jennie and Rachel. They were at the lanes too, and they had the nerve to flirt with Taehyun right in front of me!!!! They could have any guy in school, but, noooo, go after the only person my age I’ve ever given a shit about. I wanted to smash the bowling ball right into their faces, but of course you’re not supposed to hit girls. To which I say, why the fuck not? Equal rights and all, right?_

_The only good thing about the whole shit-show was I don’t think Taehyun likes them. He seemed uncomfortable when they asked him questions. Good. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he won’t be into girls at all. Or guys. I don’t wanna see him flirting with anyone, okay?_

* * *

_August 10th, 1998_

Elitch Gardens is owned by Six Flags now, so the rides and decor are plastered with Looney Tunes characters in an attempt to rebrand. Hailed as Colorado’s must-see destination, the park boasts three edge-of-your-seat roller coasters and eighteen other rides. Taehyun saw the wild loops and colorful rails of the coasters while Syd drove them through the city, and he mentioned wanting to go. “I’ve never been to a theme park before,” he said, by way of coaxing, and Syd couldn’t say no. 

There’s also a water park adjacent to the theme park, but the thought of running around in swim shorts—and, more importantly, seeing Taehyun in his own—terrifies Syd, so he discourages Taehyun by reminding him public pools are full of piss and bacteria. Taehyun, thankfully, does not argue.

Misty is more than happy to pay for their tickets and give them extra spending money. “I’m so glad you two are getting so close!” she says, and Syd feels his stomach flip as though he’s already shuttling through the loops of a roller coaster. Does she know about his flourishing crush? She _can't_ —unless she snooped around the basement and read his journal while the two of them were out—but mothers are always boasting about their near-supernatural ability to ‘just know’ things about their kids.

“He’s never been on a roller coaster,” Syd explains, side-stepping the lurking issue of his crush. 

“Are you going to brave your fear of heights?” Misty teases (in front of Taehyun, no less), which makes Syd flush. 

“You’re afraid of heights?” Taehyun asks.

“He didn’t use to be,” Misty says. “When he was little, all he wanted to do was ride the biggest, scariest rides at Elitch.”

Syd just grumbles that she’s embarrassing him and asks for their money.

The park season is beginning to wind down, and the Gardens will open only on weekends once school starts, so now is the perfect time to go. A jumble of big and small rides hide within the lush green trees planted for ambience. Lunch-wagons and concession stands dot the walkways, the smells of popcorn, hot dogs, and french fries wafting through the air. Taehyun practically drags him to the waiting line for the biggest coaster, the Twister II. “Are you really scared of heights?” Taehyun asks while they wait in the queue. 

“I’m more afraid of how dangerous these rides are. You have no idea if the thing is properly maintained, and all these parks hire idiot teenagers to operate the rides. I wouldn’t trust the morons at school with my life.”

“Aren’t you one of them?”

“Excuse you. I’m so fucking far above those conformist shitheads. At least I have a brain and can think for myself.”

“Are you taking advanced classes?”

Syd scoffs a laugh. “No way. I’m smart enough to see right through that. They load the smart kids up with all this extra work so they can’t see what’s going on around them.”

“Uh-huh,” Taehyun says, making a face like he knows Syd’s full of shit. When it’s their turn on the coaster, Syd’s stomach twists up like a DNA helix. He watches the attendant—probably some stoner dumbass from school—shut the doors and latch each safety bar. 

Syd is acutely aware of Taehyun watching him. “What?”

“You’re really nervous. What do you think is going to happen?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the safety bar isn’t so safe, and I go flying out and hit the ground from a thousand feet. What a fucking mess.”

“I thought you wanted to die,” Taehyun says, and Syd feels exposed.

“Not that way. I want something quick and painless. Like shooting myself in the mouth.”

A woman sitting in front of him turns around and gives him a glare. “Don’t talk about things like that,” she scolds, and Syd flips her the double bird when she faces forward.

Taehyun’s face, while usually a thing of wonder, is a sight to behold when he’s trying not to laugh. His mouth screws up into a half-smile, showcasing his dimples. His eyes become engulfed in what Syd later learns is called _aegyo-sal;_ Taehyun’s eyes do this when he grins broadly and when he laughs, and it’s one of Syd’s favorite things about his face. Just as Syd is thinking about kissing him, there is a jerk, then the coaster takes off. 

The ride is a convoluted track of dips and peaks. At the ride’s tallest point, Syd looks out at the mountainous beauty of the Mile-High City. The sky is blue and bright, with fluffy, cotton-candy clouds floating by. In the far distance sit the mountain ranges, faded as if they are part of the sky itself. He can see the Broncos stadium looming across the highway like a settled alien spacecraft. From this high promontory, the world reminds him of a Lego set, small and compact. 

Then the coaster is swooping down, and Syd closes his eyes again as the wind whips his face and sends his hair swooping behind him like a magician’s cape. Taehyun throws up his arms and joins the rest of the riders in delighted screams. Syd risks opening his eyes and observes Taehyun in a moment of pure bliss. Syd can’t remember the last time he saw such happiness on a person’s face. He thinks back to when he was a child and riding roller coasters was fun. Maybe that’s what Taehyun is feeling now. 

Taehyun catches him looking, grins. “Let go!” 

Syd’s hands are white-knuckled on the safety bar. “Another time.”

“The next ride?” Taehyun asks, and he looks so sweet and pleading that Syd hears himself agreeing. 

When they come down and the coaster slows to a stop, the riders evacuate. Syd braces against the green railing of the walkway around the park, waiting for the world to feel stable under his feet again. Taehyun asks if he’s sick.

“I feel like I jumped out of a plane and survived,” Syd says.

“Maybe you should eat.”

“Not if we’re going on more of these fucking things.”

They ride the Sidewinder next, a horrifying loop-oriented coaster that manages to elicit an actual scream from Syd when he’s upside-down. “Are you having fun?” Taehyun shouts over the sounds of the coaster and the other riders’ screams.

“I’m having a panic attack,” Syd says. He’s half-joking, but after the ride is over, Syd curls over a trash bin and vomits up the Pop-Tarts he had for breakfast. Taehyun rubs his back and gives him a few pats like he’s trying to burp a baby. 

“No more roller coasters,” Taehyun promises, looking solemn. “Sorry I made you ride with me.”

Syd, certain there will be no more puking, raises his head. He spits to clear his mouth a little. “Don’t give yourself so much credit. You didn’t make me do anything.”

There’s a small diner a short walk away, so they head there for lunch and sodas. Taehyun orders a cheeseburger that barely fits in his hands, and a side of onion rings. Syd opts for a plate of fries smothered in cheese and bacon. Taehyun steals a few fries off Syd’s plate, while Syd pretends not to notice. 

He wishes they could cut through all the bullshit and just be boyfriends. He wishes they could hold hands on the rides and share cotton candy. Maybe Syd could win Taehyun one of those huge stuffed animals in the shooting gallery. 

Syd knows it’s impossible, of course; even on the rare chance Taehyun is attracted to dudes, it’s hard to view someone as a romantic or sexual partner when you’ve seen them vomit into a trash can. And Syd has always hated his own looks, hated his weird eyes, his prominent nose, and the goofy fucking freckles spread across his cheeks like blood spatter. And his stupid ears, which stick out so much he grew his hair long enough to hide them.

_It’ll never happen_ , Syd tells himself, digging a little deeper into the trench of self-loathing. He realizes now that Taehyun is his first love, that this is the one that will hurt like no other. The one that will leave a scar.

After lunch, they stumble upon the midway. Taehyun’s eyes light up with excitement, and he gleefully surveys the various game booths and the tantalizing prizes hanging above. There are the cheap character-shaped backpacks that barely hold a Discman, the medium-size stuffies, then the huge stuffed toys of Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck that probably cost more to win than they would at a toy store. 

“Ah!” Taehyun gasps and points to a giant stuffed prize. “I want that Keroppi!” It’s a huge stuffed frog character Syd has seen at the Sanrio store in the mall. He’s a little surprised to see non-Looney Tunes characters here, though he supposes it’s not that strange.

“Go for it, dude.”

“I don’t know if I can.” Taehyun looks at him. “Are you any good at shooting?”

Syd grins. This is his moment. “My dad used to take me shooting with his carbine rifle. And I know my way around a BB gun.”

“Will you shoot for me?” Taehyun asks, so sincere it breaks Syd’s heart a little.

_I’d fucking die for you,_ Syd thinks, and tells him he will.

Syd steps up to the booth and pays the fee. “How many shots?” he asks.

The guy behind the counter says, “Ten a clip.”

“Give me two clips.” Syd slides an extra dollar across the counter. The guy looks at it, frowns, then pockets the money. 

Syd socks the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, looking down the nonexistent sight. A proper firearm would have a sight, but he supposes the last thing the park owners want is too many kids winning prizes. 

Syd intends to use his first clip to gauge the aim of the gun. Wear and tear can bend the rifle barrel. Chain-driven targets travel in opposite directions, each one varying in size. He squeezes off ten shots and manages to crack five of the large targets and a single smaller one.

“ _Assa_!” Taehyun says in a near-whisper at his side. Syd has never heard Taehyun speak Korean before; he finds that he likes it. He soaks in the adoration and asks for the second clip. 

“You sure?” the prize guy asks him. “You can have your pick of the level two prizes.”

“I’m feeling lucky,” Syd says.

The prize man reloads the rifle, hands it back to Syd. Syd socks it against his shoulder again and takes aim. He feels pure zen as he lines up and takes each shot. This is something he knows how to do, something he’s actually _good_ at, and he performs like an expert marksman, cracking eight of the ten small targets.

“ _Daebak_!” Taehyun cheers.

“You’re a heck of a marksman, kid!” the guy behind the counter raves. “Go ahead and take your pick, any prize level.”

Syd chooses the large Keroppi plush, which he promptly hands over to Taehyun. The doll is ridiculously large, looking even bigger against Taehyun’s slim, five-foot-something frame. “That was amazing!” Taehyun cries as they head further into the park. “You were like Robocop!”

Syd laughs. “I thought you didn’t like gory movies.”

“ _Robocop_ has a story beyond the violence,” Taehyun says, somewhat defensively. Syd can see his point. “Thank you for playing on my behalf.”

“No problem, dude. Always happy to show off my skills.”

They store the Keroppi plush in Syd’s car, then return to the park while the sun still shines. Taehyun chooses less adrenaline-pumping rides this time, and they go on the whitewater raft ride, the tilt-a-whirl, and the carousel. Syd feels like an idiot, his too-long legs bunched up on either side of the plastic horse, but Taehyun seems to enjoy himself. Syd wishes they could go on the Ferris wheel and kiss at the top. 

On their way out, Taehyun nibbles on a pink cloud of cotton candy. The sun is beginning to set, and Misty requested they be home before dark. “Thank you for today, Syd- _dongsaeng_.”

Syd lifts an eyebrow. “You gonna tell me what that means?” There is a warmth in Taehyun’s voice when he speaks Korean, and Syd likes hearing it.

“It means you are younger than me.”

“On what planet?” Syd asks with a bold laugh. “We’re the same age.”

“In Korea, I am seventeen,” Taehyun says proudly.

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

“I was born April 20th, 1982.”

Syd wants to make a weed joke but knows Taehyun won’t get it. “So much for Asians being good at math. You’re sixteen, dude.”

“When you are born, you are already one year old.”

“Nice try, kid,” Syd says, grinning. “But that’s not how it works here.” He slings an arm around Taehyun’s shoulders as they make it to the parking lot, just as an excuse to be nearer to him. “Face it, you’re sixteen. Just like me.”

“How odd. I don’t feel any younger.”

“You look younger already,” Syd jokes.

They slow as they reach Syd’s car, an old gray Honda Prelude Misty bought for him when he got his license. “I’m glad to have a friend like you,” Taehyun says, his words coming a little slower than usual, as if he’s really thinking them over. “In Seoul, I had friends, but none of them were like you. I feel very close with you.” 

Taehyun gazes at him with what Syd hopes is love but is probably closer to respect. For the briefest moment, he thinks about moving in and kissing him. But if he’s wrong, everything would be awkward and ruined, and it would be Syd’s stupid goddamn fault.

If he were suave, he might crack a joke about it—”What, you wanna kiss me?”—just to gauge Taehyun’s response, but Syd isn’t confident enough to deliver a line like that without his voice shaking. So he just smirks and says, “Yeah, me too.”

* * *

Syd’s Journal - August 10th, 1998

_Fucking goddamn it!!!!!! So it’s official: I’m totally gay, I guess, ‘cause I can’t stop thinking about Taehyun. I could have kissed him tonight, but I pussed out. Though if I did kiss him and he wasn’t interested, that would have been fucking BAD. On the way home from Elitch, he asked if we could go back sometime, but to the water park. I wanted to say FUCK YESSSS because when will I get the chance to see him almost naked? But imagining him in swim shorts and nothing else gives me an instant hard-on. I probably can’t handle the real thing. And what if he wears a Speedo or something? FUCK._

_Ugh, I just want to pick him up, take him to my room, and suck his cock and fuck him hard. Maybe he could fuck me too? (GOD) I need to get laid. Maybe that’ll change some shit around._

* * *

Syd’s Journal - August 18th, 1998

_First day of school, junior year. Classes are easy. I have three with Taehyun: Math, Creative Writing, and Psychology. It’s cool how we have two electives in common, and it seems like he’s good at math too. I have to look out for him though, make sure none of those dumb motherfuckers mess with him. If any fucking jock shitheads push him around, I’ll tear them apart like a fucking wolf. Break their arms in half and twist them around. That’ll teach ‘em not to fuck with the weird kids. High school is like prison; you have to prove yourself as the craziest motherfucker in there so people leave you alone. This is the year I stop taking shit from anyone._


	2. Trust (September 1998)

_"The enemy is within the gates; it is with our own luxury, our own folly, our own criminality, that we have to contend."_ \- Marcus Tullius Cicero

* * *

_September 2nd, 1998_

If Syd had known he would meet the Rebels today, he would have brushed up on his smooth one-liners. But, of course, he went into this Wednesday as we all do each day: with no knowledge of what was to come. 

He’s sitting in Economics class, doodling _Doom_ monsters in the margins of his notebook when the bell rings for lunch. In a broad stroke of fate, he and Taehyun share the first lunch group. He weaves his way through the slow-moving throng of students, heading for his locker in the main hall.

The gymnasium is a stone’s throw from the main thoroughfare of lockers, and as it happens, two of the meanest pricks in the senior class round the corner just as Syd reaches his locker. The taller boy is Nate Mears, and the shorter (and possibly dumber) one is his lackey, Cory Bowers. They are dressed in letter jackets and shorts, with baseball caps covering their stupid flattop haircuts. Syd irrationally hates their haircuts; they look like they’re planning on a stint in the US Army in case this football thing doesn’t work out. All of the jocks in this school look like they’re pumped out of a factory specializing in after-school-special bullies, and these two are no different.

But they’re not interested in Syd today. Instead, they stalk right by him to the end of the row of lockers. Taehyun is there, placing an armful of books into his locker. Nate sidles up beside him and slams the door. “Hey, Short-Round, let me make you a deal,” Nate sneers. “You let me copy your chem homework, and I won’t pound the shit out of you.”

_Showtime_ , Syd thinks. He hurriedly shoves his books into his own locker; he’ll need his hands free if he plans to make adequate threats. He shuts the locker door and heads for Taehyun’s rescue. “You keep talking about pounding other guys and people will think you’re gay, Mears.” 

Nate whirls, his upper lip curled into a snarl like an angry dog. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, gaywad?”

“Real original,” Syd shoots back, though he feels his face burning at the accusation. “The two of you are joined at the hip.” He motions to Nate and Cory. ”People will talk.”

“I could say the same about you and Short-Round,” Cory says with a snicker, and Nate joins him in their laughter. They remind Syd of Beavis and Butt-head, albeit stupider. 

“You could,” Syd says, “and I’m sure you do, but I don’t give a shit. You guys, though, you care _way_ too much about what other people think, and it shows.”

Nate fumes red. In one smooth motion, he grabs Syd by the front of his Rammstein T-shirt and drags him down so they’re face-to-face. Syd is six-foot-three, so this looks a bit awkward. Nate seems unaware of this. “Shut up, faggot, or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what? Kick my ass? I could tear your throat out with my teeth like a pop can.” Sometimes threats just need to be graphic enough to make the other person think twice about fucking with you. It works, because Nate’s black eyes lose a bit of their fury. Syd doesn’t blink, doesn’t break eye contact. “If you beat me up, you better be ready to kill me. ‘Cause if you don’t, I’ll come back for you and show you who’s God. I’ll tear your fucking head off.”

“Dude, I think he means it,” Cory says to Nate.

“You’re crazy,” Nate says.

“You’re goddamn right I’m crazy! And fucking assholes like you made me this way! You wanna test me? I’ll be happy to dump all the rage I’ve stored over the last four fucking years on you. It’ll be a massacre.”

Nate lets go of Syd, and Syd straightens up, using the full effect of his height to add an extra degree of intimidation. “Okay, dude, Jesus!” Nate says.

“Now let me make _you_ a deal. Fuck with me or him”—Syd points to Taehyun, who’s watching with awe and horror—”and I stab you in the gut, shove it up to your heart, and yank the fucking blade out of your ribcage. You’ll be picking your fucking guts up off your sneakers. And that goes for both of you.”

“Jesus!” Cory yelps, his voice hilariously high. He pulls Nate away from the crazy man threatening them. “He’s fucking psycho! Let’s get out of here!”

Nate hesitates for a moment, testing Syd’s resolve. The clear savage joy on Syd’s face smiles back. “The only reason you’re still alive is because I’ve decided to let you live.” It’s a slightly altered line from a KMFDM song, but it gets the job done.

“Stay away from me, you crazy fucker!” Nate shouts over his shoulder as he and Cory hurry away. Syd watches them scurry off, then he looks at Taehyun. 

“They won’t be bothering you anymore,” Syd tells him, ruffling Taehyun’s hair. 

“That was intense,” Taehyun says. “Would you really do all that for me?”

“Push comes to shove? Yeah, probably.” 

Syd becomes aware that a small crowd had gathered to watch what they hoped would be a fight. Now that tensions have calmed, most of the students that were watching are walking away in disinterest. A small group on the other side of the hallway, however, are still staring at Syd, watching him to see what he’ll do next. 

There are three of them—two boys and a girl, all white and dressed in mostly black—and Syd meets each of their gazes. He recognizes the girl from his creative writing class, though he can’t recall her name. “Are we gonna have a problem?” Syd asks, a small part of him still itching for a fight.

“No way, dude. That was the coolest shit I’ve ever seen,” one of the guys says, approaching him. He slaps a hand on Syd’s shoulder, which Syd doesn’t appreciate. “Do you wanna hang out with us?”

Syd looks at the group. One of the boys has a long, horse-like face and a bowl cut; he’s wearing a Nine Inch Nails T-shirt. The girl is blonde, short and somewhat chunky, wearing those Hot Topic pants with the pockets and chains. The guy who approached him is about Syd’s height, wearing army fatigues and a white T-shirt. Syd has seen him loitering outside the commons, lighting up cigarettes during lunch breaks. His eyebrows are thick, dark caterpillars on his face. 

“I guess,” Syd says. He doesn’t want to appear too eager, but inside he’s celebrating the invitation into a social circle.

“Anyone who sends Mears and Bowers away with their tails between their legs is a friend of ours. I’m Derek. That’s Jesse, and the chick is Carrie.” Each of them offers a wave, and Syd waves back, introducing himself and Taehyun. “Follow us,” Derek says. “We wanna chat.”

Syd and Taehyun exchange a glance, each seeking the other’s acceptance of this new group. Taehyun nods and shrugs, and Syd says, “Alright.” They shake hands, and the pact is sealed.

The five of them head downstairs. The cafeteria buzzes with activity during the first lunch, the most populous of the three breaks. Derek leads them through the exit in the commons. The parking lots, filled with shiny cars, greet them in the distance, but Derek’s bringing them to the “senior smoke-pit”, as it’s referred to by the locals. It’s a small park across the street, off school grounds. There are a handful of other students scattered about, puffing on cancer sticks. 

Derek digs a pack of smokes from his pocket and lights up. “We’re waiting for Reb,” he says by way of explanation as he sits on the top of a nearby park bench. “He’s bringing us lunch.” Jesse and Carrie sit beside him, on the bench seats. Clearly, there is a pecking order here.

“Reb?”

“One of our older friends. He graduated a few years ago, so he can legally buy beer.”

“Cool. Is he bringing beer?”

“Not this time,” Derek says. “So what did those meathead jocks want?”

“Nate wanted to copy my chemistry homework,” Taehyun informs them. “We share an AP class. I don’t know how he ended up there.”

“Probably a schedule mistake. Happens all the time,” Derek says. “They put me in a fucking bowling class, can you believe that?” 

“Or maybe he’s copied so many smart kids’ homework that he’s got them fooled,” Syd points out. “You did the right thing,” he says to Taehyun. “Don’t enable guys like that to cheat their way through life. They need a cold, hard smack in the face from reality.”

“Damn right,” Jesse says. “That prick Cory gave me hell last year in gym class. He kept stealing my clothes and throwing them in the toilet.”

Carrie says, “He just wanted to get you naked. All of those super-macho jocks are repressed homosexuals.”

“I knew it,” Syd says with a laugh, vindicated that Carrie has confirmed his theory.

“I admire anyone who can stand up to the rich, snobby little toadies like you did,” Derek says to Syd. He takes a long drag off his cigarette. “You two are Rebel material, for sure.”

Taehyun blinks. “Me? But I did nothing.”

“Anyone Syd’s willing to threaten Mears and Bowers over is cool with us,” Jesse says, bumming a smoke off Derek. 

A car pulls into the senior parking lot at the school in the closest available space to the park. A man with orange hair emerges carrying a drink tray and a pizza box. Derek sees him and waves him over. “This is Reb,” he says to Syd and Taehyun. “I think he’s gonna like you.”

Reb wears ripped jeans and a plaid shirt. His hair is less ginger-orange and more Fanta-orange. The dye appears to be fading from his dark roots, or at least his hair has grown considerably since applying the color. 

Reb hands Derek the tray and box, and Derek flips open the lid. The mouth-watering smell of garlic and cheese wafts into the air. Everyone digs in, save for Syd and Taehyun, who are unsure whether they’re allowed to participate.

“Cool shirt,” Reb says, looking at Syd’s Rammstein T-shirt. 

“Thanks. Yours is cool too.” Reb’s shirt has the yellow Batman emblem across the front. “You’re Reb, huh?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“You must be the Shoko Asahara to their Aum Shinrikyo,” Taehyun observes somewhat coldly. Syd has no idea what the fuck he’s talking about, but it gets a big laugh from Reb, so it must mean something. 

“It’s not like that,” Reb says. “We’re just a bunch of outcasts who found each other.”

“So are you like… someone’s big brother or something?” Taehyun asks, and, yeah, Syd still isn’t sure how this weird adult fits into the picture. 

“We went to high school together,” Derek says. “I was a freshman when Reb was a senior.”

“And what are you now?”

“I’m a senior, same as you.”

“Actually, we’re juniors,” Taehyun says. 

“Oh, I just assumed…” Derek shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Jesse’s a sophomore. Dig in.” He gestures to the pizza, which is already missing three slices. “You’re part of our group. You can eat our food.”

Syd and Taehyun sit in the empty spaces on the bench and partake of the pizza. “Reb, this is Syd,” Derek introduces them. “He stood up to Mears and Bowers. It was pretty metal.”

“No shit?” Reb grins at Syd. “You got guts.”

“He said he’d spill their guts all over the floor if they didn’t fuck off,” Jesse chimes in. “It was awesome.”

Carrie says, “And he was sticking up for Taehyun.” She points a thumb at him. “He’s a good dude. More people should stick up for the little guys.”

“I dig you already,” Reb says to Syd. “If you need anything, just ask.”

Reb sticks around for a few minutes before announcing he needs to head back. “I’ll see you guys later,” he says, heading towards the parking lot.

Derek thanks him and waves. “He works at the pizza place,” he explains to Syd. “So he gets an employee discount.”

While they eat, they chat. Derek is taking film classes in hopes of being a world-famous director. Carrie says, “It’s bullshit that we’re supposed to know what to do with the rest of our lives when we’re just teenagers.” Jesse says he’ll probably do something with computers. Taehyun tells them he’s going to be a doctor. Syd reveals he’s either going to design video games or become a crime scene cleaner.

“Fucking awesome, dude,” Derek says. “Why didn’t I think of that? Shit, you ever wonder how many crime scene cleaners have gotten away with murder?”

Jesse whispers, “Holy shit.”

“I bet there’s tons of ‘em,” Derek continues. He ponders this for a moment, then directs his attention to Syd. “We’re going to Reb’s place to watch movies after school. Wanna come?”

Syd hears himself say yes before really thinking about it. Having friends is a new, exhilarating thing, and it makes him forget Taehyun may not want to come along. 

After lunch, they split off into groups. Carrie, Jesse, and Derek go one way, Syd and Taehyun another. Syd asks, “So what was it you said to Reb that got him cracking up?”

“Aum Shinrikyo?”

“Is that another Korean thing?”

Taehyun says, “It’s a Japanese doomsday cult. Shoko Asahara was their leader. They made sarin and VX gas to use in chemical weapon attacks. They’re mostly known for the Tokyo subway sarin attack which killed 13 people and injured hundreds of others.”

“The fuck? I thought you weren’t into morbid stuff.”

“Last year, I did a report on the psychology of cult manipulation,” Taehyun says, somewhat defensively. “Aum Shinrikyo was one of the cults I used as examples.”

They weave their way through the flood of students in the cafeteria. “And that’s what you think Reb’s doing? Starting a cult? ‘Cause I don’t see them as particularly religious people.”

“I think it is more of a”—Taehyun searches for the word—”cult of personality. ‘Reb’ is short for Rebel. They call themselves Rebels.”

“‘Rebel’ isn’t exactly an uncommon word,” Syd says. They head upstairs to the main floor where their shared creative writing class is held. “They probably got it from the David Bowie song or James Dean’s whole shtick. Besides, you might be reading into things that aren’t there.”

“They praised you a lot,” Taehyun says. “That’s a textbook cult tactic.”

Syd throws out his arms like he’s trying to fly. “They think I’m cool! Goddamn it, I finally have friends. Don’t ruin this for me.”

“Just be careful.” Taehyun’s face is bright and open, a tiny crease of distress between his eyebrows.

They’re at their lockers now, reconvening at the spot where the whole mess began. Syd spins the lock, and grabs his books and some writing utensils. He finds it utterly offensive that Taehyun seems opposed to Syd having other friends. He has stood up to two of the schools premier bullies and earned his stripes. He has found a group of friends, and Taehyun wants to take that away from him? _Bullshit_. 

He slams the locker closed and rejoins Taehyun on the short walk to class. “Look, I’m not leaving you behind,” Syd says, softening his approach. “We live together, dude. We’ll see each other all the time.” It has only just occurred to him that Taehyun might be worried this new group of friends will siphon all of Syd’s time, and there will be none left for him. Ironic, since Syd feared the same about Taehyun.

Inside the classroom, Carrie is already there, seated near the back. She smiles and waves at them when they enter. Until today, the only girl who has ever been happy to see Syd is his mother. He smiles and waves back.

* * *

“Do you want to come with me to Reb’s?” Syd asks as the bell rings at the end of the day. Taehyun’s packing up his psychology notes and textbook, a grim expression on his face. “If you don’t like it, or you stop having fun, we’ll go home, okay? Just give it a shot for me. Please?” 

Taehyun stares at him, perhaps reading some infinitesimal emotion in Syd’s eyes. “Okay, but only for you.”

They meet up with the Rebels in the parking lot. Syd follows Derek’s car to a small ramshackle apartment building a few blocks from the school. Derek leads them down a graffiti-lined alleyway, and they park behind the building near the dumpster. Reb lives on the ground floor, which Syd thinks is a pretty bold move, considering a lot of the houses around here look like shit. Even the apartment building looks ratty on the outside.

The door is unlocked, so they go inside. Syd expected an extreme hoarder situation, but it’s not that bad. There’s a couch in a style of plaid better left in the ‘70s, a coffee table, a rabbit-ears TV, and the amount of clutter you’d expect in a bachelor pad. Reb’s sitting on the couch, his black Converse kicked up on the coffee table. “Hey, dudes.” There’s a pizza box sitting on the table. On the wall beside the TV is a bookshelf filled with videotapes.

“Can I use your phone?” Taehyun asks. “I need to call my mom.”

Syd almost reminds him he can’t call his mother without some serious long-distance charges, then figures out Taehyun probably means Misty. It’s a little strange, hearing someone else call her Mom, but Syd supposes Taehyun’s trying to blend in by referring to her that way.

Reb grants him permission, and Taehyun makes the call. Syd, meanwhile, checks out Reb’s library of tapes. He’s got all the classics— _Cannibal Holocaust_ , the _Faces of Death_ series, _Natural Born Killers_ —but some of the titles he’s never heard of before. “What are these weird Chinese flicks?”

“They’re Japanese gore films,” Reb says. “They have way cooler shit over there.”

Some of the VHS covers are for cartoonish, anime movies. How disturbing can a film be if it’s animated, Syd wonders. One of the boxes intrigues him, and he slips it off the shelf for a look. “What’s _Rare: A Dead Person_?” He can’t read whatever Asian language is plastered all over the front and back.

“It’s like Japan’s version of _Faces of Death_ , except all the footage is real,” Reb says.

“Do you get these from James’ place on Wynkoop?”

“No, I buy ‘em online. James doesn’t have the really good foreign shit.”

Once Jesse and Carrie arrive, Reb moves to the video shelf and begins thumbing through the titles there. “So for the two newbies”—he looks at Syd and Taehyun—”what we do here is chill out and watch movies. Like a book club, except you don’t have to read anything. Any requests?”

Syd wants to ask about that one with real death footage, but he doesn’t think he’s allowed to, being new and all. 

Jesse’s hand goes up. “I’ve been waiting weeks to see _Guinea Pig 2_ , dude.” He looks at the rest of the group. “I read on the internet that Charlie Sheen thought it was a snuff film and called the FBI. They actually investigated it.”

“So, like _Cannibal Holocaust_?” Syd says. He’s read about the _Guinea Pig_ films but never actually seen them since he can’t find the tapes. James’ store mostly stocks exploitation films and obscure horror movies; _Faces of Death_ is likely the rawest James will go, mostly due to the series’ notoriety and allegedly fake death scenes.

“Yeah, but way better.” Jesse grins.

So Reb pops the tape into the VHS player. The film is in Japanese, and begins with a text scroll. Derek leans over to Taehyun and asks, “Can you read that?”

“No. I’m Korean,” Taehyun grumbles, his arms crossed.

The movie has no real plot; a woman is drugged and tied to a bed while a man dressed as a samurai tortures her. The grainy VHS look of the film only lends to its realism; there are no fancy shots or cinematography to distance the viewer from the events onscreen, which, in turn, makes the impressive effects look even more convincing. Over the span of forty minutes, the woman is dismembered, first her hands, then her arms and legs, until the samurai butcher disembowels her. He ends her torture by decapitating her and making out with the disembodied head. 

“Why the fuck did Charlie Sheen think this was real?” Syd asks mid-way through. “That chick would _not_ still be alive after having her arms cut off.”

“She would have been dead as soon as he cut into her armpit,” Taehyun says. “There is an artery there.”

“Of course you’d know that, Dr. Lee,” Syd ribs him, but something about Taehyun’s clinical, detached tone makes him glance over. His posture is tight, his arms crossed, his knees together. Syd whispers, “You okay?”

“Why do you like things like this?” Taehyun asks in a soft voice.

Syd shrugs. “’Cause it’s fun?”

“It’s disgusting,” Taehyun says, but makes no move to leave.

Carrie is sitting on the opposite side of Syd, and he notices her scoot closer, pressing their hips together. He has never been this close to a cute girl before. Sandwiched between two people he is attracted to, he shifts, crossing his legs to hide his growing hard-on. There’s probably something foreboding about the fact that he can get a boner while watching a woman’s legs get cut off.

When the film is over, Reb asks, “Round two?”

No one objects, so another tape is popped in. This one is another Japanese gore film but, while still maintaining the old VHS aesthetic, has some semblance of a plot, though Syd can’t follow it without subtitles. From what he can gather, there’s a gay sadomasochist dude who draws another guy into becoming his accomplice in torture and murder. 

Syd is especially uncomfortable during the gay scenes, but for all the wrong reasons; they seem to awaken something inside of him—his lust for Taehyun, perhaps—especially since the whole cast is Asian. Like he needs even more difficulty hiding his boner. 

“That villain dude is super hot,” Carrie says, as if reading Syd’s mind.

“He’s killing people,” Taehyun says, bewildered.

Reb laughs. “Being a psychopath doesn’t stop Carrie from wanting to bang someone. She thinks Ted Bundy is hot.”

Carrie playfully slaps Reb’s shoulder. “I never should have told you that,” she says, blushing.

At some point in the film, a kidnapped girl is gang-raped and murdered. It’s all senseless, gratuitous violence, something Syd would enjoy the fuck out of on any other day, but he’s distracted by his confused erection and Taehyun’s coldness. 

He considers getting up from the couch to relieve his boner in the bathroom, but he would run the risk of someone seeing it. Although he’s rolling the dice on that one with each passing second, by just sitting here in an awkward position. He should just get rid of the thing and be done with it. How much longer is he willing to be horribly uncomfortable?

Should he announce that he’s going to pee? Would that be a dead giveaway that he is not, in fact, going to relieve his bladder but instead his aching balls? Should he go quietly and return without a word? He supposes it would look more suspicious if he said anything. And if these people are truly his friends, they probably won’t rib him too much about going off to masturbate. Among each other, sure, but probably not to the rest of the school. They are, after all, outcasts, people who know what it’s like to be bullied.

Fuck it. Syd rises from the couch and slips past Taehyun; it’s quicker that way, since he’s the only person sitting to Syd’s right, and Syd doesn’t want to potentially parade his boner past three other people. Inside the bathroom, it only takes him a few quick strokes before he’s shooting over his hand. It happens so quickly he gasps at the intensity of it. His legs are still shaking, even after he’s cleaned up and flushed the evidence. He takes a few moments to catch his breath, running his hands under the faucet. 

When he opens the door, Taehyun is on the other side with his arms crossed. Syd jumps. “Jesus, how long have you been standing there?”

“I want to go home.” Taehyun’s voice is quiet ice. Syd is reminded of his mother’s stern, ‘you’re in deep shit now, kid’ tone. _Gulp_. 

“Sure, we can do that,” Syd stammers. He feels like he’s fucked up, but he doesn’t know how or why.

On-screen, a guy is being roasted from the inside by a blowtorch in the mouth. Syd makes his way to the front door. “Taehyun needs a ride home, so we’re gonna bounce. Is that cool?”

Reb has his arm draped over the back of the couch. “Sure, man. Do what you want.”

“See you tomorrow?” Carrie asks.

“Yeah, of course,” Syd tells her, says his goodbyes, and leaves with Taehyun in tow.

Taehyun is suspiciously quiet on the drive home. Syd is reminded again of his mother, of an incident at middle school when he was in eighth grade. He had been suspended for staging a fake suicide in the cafeteria. “It was just a joke!” he protested when his mother joined him in the principal’s office. “It wasn’t even real blood! It was just ketchup!” The school demanded a psychological evaluation, and on the drive home his mother had given him the same cold silence that Taehyun’s giving him now. 

But Syd can’t handle this shit, especially not from his best friend. He needs to know what he did wrong so he can avoid doing it in the future. He decides to dive in head-first with an apology, hoping that will soften Taehyun up a little. 

“Look, I’m sorry. I know you don’t like those movies. You don’t have to come next time. Or maybe we can watch stuff that’s not so gruesome, if you still want to hang out with all of us.”

“’Us’? So you’re part of them already?”

Syd sighs. Not this shit again. “You’re not my mom, dude. You don’t get to call the shots on who I hang out with. I like them. They’re cool. If you want to get back at me by finding your own group of friends, go ahead! I’d be thrilled.”

That was the wrong thing to say, but Syd can’t tell why. It only serves to ignite some buried anger inside of Taehyun. “Are you sexually aroused by violence?”

Syd almost stomps on the brake, because his mind and the rest of the world have come to a complete halt. “ _What_?”

“You had an erection,” Taehyun says, each word piercing, “during a movie with torture and rape and murder. What is _wrong_ with you?”

Syd tries denial. “What? No, I didn’t!”

“I _saw it_ when you walked by me,” Taehyun says through his teeth, as though this is particularly distressing. “Just what exactly were you doing in that bathroom?”

“I was peeing!”

“You can’t pee with an erection, _michinnom_!”

So denial is out the window, then. Syd isn’t sure why he thought that would work. “If you’re going to call me names, at least do it in English.”

“Fine. You’re crazy, just like them.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Did it ever occur to you that having a hot girl pressed up against me is why I had a boner?”

“You think Carrie is hot?”

Syd interprets this as an example of Taehyun’s shallowness, because Carrie isn’t an anorexic Barbie doll. He rolls into the driveway of his house, parking alongside his mom’s van. “Dude, don’t be catty. And yes, I do. That’s why I had a boner. I’m not the psycho you think I am.”

“Those threats you made were pretty graphic.”

Syd’s mouth drops open. “Those threats saved your ass from becoming bully-meat! And I distinctly remember you going starry-eyed over me saying I’d kick the ass of anyone who messed with you.”

Taehyun squirms, like Syd has hit a nerve. “That’s not fair. I was flattered by the offer, but I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” Syd reminds him. “I just talked a big game.”

“I think you went out of your way to be provocative.”

“Yes! I said all that stuff so they would leave us alone. I don’t know how I would fare in a fight. But when people think I’m psycho, they don’t make trouble. It’s psychological warfare.”

“Or maybe you’re just crazy and good at rationalizing it.”

Syd sighs, slumps in his seat. He has turned the car off, and the two of them sit there in punishing silence. There must be words that can undo the damage Syd has done here, but hell if he knows what they are. “You’re supposed to be my friend,” he says, sounding defeated. “But here you are, judging me like everyone else.”

“Sorry,” Taehyun says, perhaps at a loss of anything more meaningful to say. If he really _was_ sorry, he’d stick around and talk things out instead of grabbing his backpack off the floor and exiting the car.

Syd watches him go inside the house, wishing that fake suicide in eighth grade had been the real deal.

Misty is waiting for Syd when he comes through the door. Taehyun is nowhere to be seen, presumably in his room with the door shut. “Did you two have your first fight?” she asks.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Syd tells her, heading for the basement.

Misty comes downstairs an hour later, presuming Syd has cooled down enough to talk. She arrives with a tray of pizza bagels, which she promptly sets on the coffee table. Syd is currently taking out his frustrations on the on-screen characters in _Mortal Kombat_. “Thought you might be hungry,” Misty says.

Syd grunts a response that’s supposed to be a ‘thank you.’ “Come to bribe me?”

“I guess it might look that way. Do you want to tell me what happened?” She sits beside him on the couch, and Syd has no choice but to allow it. “I’m not that much older than you, you know. I remember what it was like to be a teenager.” Syd doesn’t doubt that; his mother is in her late thirties. 

He pauses the game so he can focus his full attention on how to summarize the situation for her. 

“He told me you two were at a friend’s house,” Misty says, probing for him to elaborate.

“I made some new friends at school, and I guess he’s jealous.” 

Misty nods, as though this confirms a suspicion. “Do they not like him?”

“No, they’re fine with him. _He_ doesn’t like _them._ ”

“Why’s that?” 

Syd picks up a pizza bagel, studies it. “He thinks they’re weird.”

“You said it yourself. He’s jealous. He probably thinks you’re going to spend all your time with these new friends and leave him behind. It’s got to be ten times scarier for him, being on his own in a foreign country. How would you feel in his place?”

“I know, and I told him I’m not gonna abandon him, but then he brought up all this other stuff.”

“Like what?”

Syd chews on the pizza bagel, buying himself some time to think of a response. “He thinks I’m crazy too, for liking horror movies and violent games.” 

“Is that what your new friends like?”

Syd nods.

“So they probably have more in common with you than Taehyun,” Misty says.

Syd knows what she’s getting at and supposes it makes sense at face value. But Taehyun has said too many things in anger that throw the obvious answer into question. 

“Maybe you and your friends could do things he likes to do,” Misty adds. Syd thinks his mother’s advice would be more insightful if she had become a therapist rather than a kindergarten teacher. “So he doesn’t feel left out.”

“Yeah, sure, if he even wants to hang out with us anymore,” Syd says, keeping the frustration out of his voice. He has learned the best way to deal with unhelpful parental advice is to pretend it’s actually good. If he nods along and acts like he’s been helped, Misty will leave him alone to work out a more viable solution. “Maybe he’ll cool off overnight.”

After a few more platitudes, Misty goes back upstairs. Syd eats the remaining pizza bagels in a gloom, wishing he knew how to recapture the euphoria he had the first few weeks with Taehyun.

* * *

Syd’s Journal - September 2nd, 1998

_Ughhhhhhh Taehyun is pissed at me for who the fuck knows what. I guess I’m too psycho for him or something. I don’t know why he can’t be happy for me finally making other friends. Reb, Carrie, Jesse, and Derek are pretty cool. We’re like the Losers Club from It, albeit shy a few members. But Taehyun doesn’t want anything to do with them. He thinks they’re a cult. And he calls_ me _the crazy one????_

_I still have a huge, stupid crush on him though. I wish we could just go back to the way we were before and be friends again. Maybe be_ more _than friends. But I’d probably be a shitty boyfriend and break his heart and end up being some sad story he tells chicks in med school. One of them will eventually be his wife and they’ll have a bunch of kids, and he’ll go on to be a rich doctor in LA or New York or somewhere like that. I’ll be all smiles at the wedding, then I’ll be found hanging from the closet of my motel room after the reception. Fuck my life._

__

* * *

_September 3rd, 1998_

Syd’s grabbing his morning Pop-Tarts when Misty says, “This is probably a stupid question, but you know the difference between movies and real life, right?”

Syd whirls, his mouth occupied by strawberry goodness. “Of course,” he mumbles around the tart.

“And you know just because you heard or saw it in a movie or game doesn’t mean it’s okay to do in real life—”

“Oh, Jesus, did the school call you?”

Misty blinks. “No, why would they—”

“Damn it.” Syd slams a hand on the kitchen counter. He has no idea what he’s in trouble for, and now he has to explain the jock incident from yesterday. 

Misty takes hold of his shoulders. It’s almost comical, because she has to stand on her tiptoes to really meet his eyes. “What’s going on, Syd? Are you in trouble?”

“That depends. What kind of mood are you in?” He offers a forced yearbook-picture smile. It doesn’t seem to help his chances. 

“Tell me what you did.”

“I didn’t do anything. Some jocks were giving Taehyun a hard time yesterday, so I stood up to them. I didn’t hit anyone, I just… threatened to.”

Misty frowns, disapproving. “I appreciate you sticking up for Taehyun, but I don’t want you getting into fights. We’ve talked about this.”

“I know, but see, that’s the genius of it. If your threats are graphic and disturbing enough, you never have to fight because all the bullies think you’re mental.” He taps his left temple for emphasis. 

Misty folds her arms over her chest. “Well, that’s… certainly a strategy.”

“So what _was_ I in trouble for before I opened my stupid mouth?”

“You aren’t in trouble,” Misty says, measuring her words. “I was just curious what kind of movies you’re watching with your friends.”

Syd exhales a slow, angry breath. So Taehyun blabbed to Mom in some crazy Machiavellian gambit to keep Syd from having any other friends. Clever, certainly, but infuriating all the same. “They’re just stupid horror movies. Everything’s obviously fake.”

“So you’re not”—Misty pauses, stammering like she’s about to have The Talk with him, and _holy fuck_ the sadistic brilliance of Taehyun’s machinations suddenly crashes home for Syd—” _aroused_ or turned on by seeing people cut in half and tortured?”

Syd knows better than to blow up—he can’t risk spilling the beans about the boner incident if Misty doesn’t already know about it—but it takes all he has not to shout ‘you’re fucking dead!’ and charge into Taehyun’s room for some serious carnage. “Did Taehyun tell you that?”

Misty’s cheeks flush red.

“I was sitting right next to a hot girl!” Syd protests. “She was practically in my lap!” An exaggeration, but it ought to drive home the point.

Misty seems more than willing to accept that and move on to the next point of business. “And who is this Reb person? Some older guy hanging out with a bunch of teenagers?”

Of course she would have a problem with that. Fuck, Taehyun really spilled everything, didn’t he? “He and Derek were friends when Reb was a senior, and they still hang out. It’s not that weird. He’s not, like, some rando. Were you never friends with upperclassmen?”

She doesn’t dismiss this, but she seems to be chewing on it. 

“Besides,” Syd adds, “Derek and Carrie are already seniors. It’s not that weird for eighteen-year-olds and twenty-year-olds to hang out; isn’t that just… college?” He’s shaving a year off Reb’s age, hoping not to set off a different kind of Mom Alarm by mentioning the legal drinking age.

“You’re very convincing,” Misty says, amused. “Have you considered a career in law?”

Syd shakes his head, though he’s relieved that her note of levity means their serious discussion is over. “Too much paperwork. And even thinking about public speaking makes my bowels clench up.”

Misty makes a face. “I’m glad we had this talk.”

On the drive to school, Syd has Taehyun trapped, and it’s the perfect time for interrogation. “So you blabbed to Mom. Smart play. It’s what I’d do in your situation. But, seriously, dude. What the fuck?”

“You’re my best friend, and I don’t want to lose you,” Taehyun says candidly. 

Syd’s heart becomes a rubber ball, bouncing around and bashing against his ribs.

“That girl seems to like you, and if you start dating, eventually you’ll have no time left for me,” Taehyun continues, oblivious to Syd’s moment of exhilaration.

“Dating? Dude, I barely know her.”

“Right now, yes. But as time goes on…” Taehyun sighs. “I think a lot about the future. It’s how I survive. You probably think that’s stupid, since you don’t believe you _have_ a future.”

It’s true, yet Syd feels oddly attacked. “Look, I don’t want to quote Ferris Bueller, but you’ve forced my hand. ‘Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.’”

A smile tugs at the corners of Taehyun’s mouth. “I thought you only watched violent gore-fests.”

“Hey, I’m human. I love a good John Hughes film just like everyone else.”

“I like this side of you.”

“And you’re gonna miss it if you keep freaking out over what may or may not happen in the future. Look, why don’t I make you a deal? Monday, Wednesdays and Fridays will be ‘hang out with the Rebels’ days. And the rest I’ll spend with you, including weekends.”

“That’s an uneven split.”

“I know. But you deserve it.”

Syd smiles at him, and Taehyun smiles back.

* * *

Syd’s Journal - September 5th, 1998

_So Taehyun and I were playing Twisted Metal tonight, and he said something that made me think. He said he doesn’t like violent, plot-less gore movies because he thinks they’re magnets for psychopaths, that only people with violent urges would ever watch something like that. And I don’t think he’s wrong but I don’t think he’s right either? At least he isn’t like those lame soccer moms who think that shit turns you psycho. He’s smart enough to know violent games and movies can’t make people do shit they weren’t already going to do. If I go crazy and kill somebody, don’t blame Pulp Fiction or Mortal Kombat or my parents or Doom or the media. It would be ME! Pointing fingers at the media or whatever just lets violent psychos get away with their shit and live the rest of their lives in cozy hospitals instead of getting the shit kicked out of them in prison. _

_I wonder if that means Taehyun thinks I’m a psycho. Maybe I am. Could he learn to love me anyway? (gaaaaaay) Maybe I wouldn’t be such a fucking weirdo if I had someone who loved me. I’m like Quasimodo in the bell tower, longing for my Esmeralda. I want to meet my soulmate. I’m sick of feeling like half a person._

__

* * *

_September 28th, 1998_

A tap on Syd’s shoulder during fourth period Creative Writing gets his hand positioned to receive a note from Carrie, who sits one desk behind him. They have taken to exchanging notes during class, mostly filled with talk of movies to watch at Reb’s. This one, however, takes Syd by surprise as he reads the perfect, round lettering:

_Would you go to Homecoming with me? Y’know, as an ironic dig at the preppy losers who actually think school dances are important. :P_

He has never been asked to a school dance before, even as a joke. He’s never actually heard about the prank happening in real life, only knows of it as a thing awful teenagers do in movies and TV shows. A first time for everything, he supposes.

Syd turns to face her. “What’s ironic is a girl named Carrie asking someone to prom as a joke,” he whispers.

She huffs a quiet laugh. “I know, right?”

Syd stares at her, fearful and angry all at once. “So is it, then? Is it a joke on me? You might as well get it over with now and save us both the trouble.” His expression is pure steel, and high spots of color appear on her cheeks. 

“Oh, no, no, no, it’s not like that!” Carrie leans in, keeping her voice quiet. “Has no one ever asked you out before, seriously?”

“Life’s been a series of no-hitters for me. Which is great if you’re a pitcher, but I’m the guy at the plate.”

“Then maybe you’re due,” Carrie says sweetly, and Syd allows himself to feel a warm bloom of joy. “But screw Homecoming. Let’s just see a movie or something. Have you seen _Blade_ yet?”

He has, just last weekend with Taehyun, but he knows enough to know he’s not supposed to admit that here. “No. Sounds awesome.”

* * *

Syd’s Journal - September 28th, 1998

_I HAVE A DATE FOR HOMECOMING! WOOHAH! It’s not really for Homecoming, just on the same night, but school dances are super fucking lame anyway. I’d much rather watch Blade with a cute girl than hang around in the school gym wearing a suit and playing at being an adult. Homecoming King and Queen is all a fucking farce; anything voted upon by the masses ends up being a popularity contest in the end. If anyone should be named Homecoming King, it should be someone like Taehyun: smart, over-achieving, bilingual, nice, etc. But it’s gonna be some dipshit like Mears or Bowers who should flunk their classes but get passed so they can play football. And someone like Carrie should be queen, but nooooo it’ll be a stuck-up size-zero rich bitch like Jennie Peterson who will peak in high school and end up pregnant before she’s even legally able to drink. _

_OH WELL. I have a date. FINALLY. Haters can suck it._

__

* * *

Syd’s Journal - September 29th, 1998

_I need to get some fucking fireworks! Taehyun’s been talking about Korean Thanksgiving (Chuseok) which just so happens to start on the same day as Homecoming. He says there’s some kind of holiday on October 3rd, like our 4th of July, and then the next few days are their Thanksgiving holidays. Usually they go to their hometowns and spend time with family, but since he can’t do that this year, Mom and I want to celebrate it here. Mom will take care of the food prep, I just need to get some fireworks for Oct 3. It’s the same day as my date, but I think I can swing both._

__

* * *

Syd’s Journal - September 30th, 1998

_Went to a fireworks shop with Reb and Derek and came back with a nice haul. Had to drive all the fucking way to Cheyenne, but it was worth it. I told them my plan and they said they’d help, but not without calling me a gaywad. I lied and said the whole thing is my mom’s idea, said I owed her for skipping out on some show she wanted to see over the summer. All BS, of course, but they bought it. Taehyun has no idea what I’m planning, but I think he’s gonna like it. Shit, I would make an awesome boyfriend._


	3. Lust (October 1998)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite chapter. Well, it's a tie between this one and chapter 8. :)

_"When wounds are healed by love, the scars are beautiful."_ \- David Bowles, _Shattering and Bricolage_

* * *

_October 3rd, 1998_

“A date, huh?” Misty teases Syd after school. “Isn’t Homecoming tonight?”

“Yeah, but eff that. We’re going to a movie.” He’s promised to pick Carrie up at seven for a quick dinner, then hit the theater by eight-thirty. 

“Where’s your school spirit?”

“School spirit is for dorks,” Syd says. “At least before you’re in college—y’know, a school you actually _choose_. Did you even go to Homecoming?”

“No, but I was hoping you wouldn’t repeat my mistakes,” Misty says. She smiles and takes his face in her hands, standing on her tiptoes for easier eye-contact. “I’m so proud of you. I don’t tell you that often enough—”

Syd rolls his eyes. “Only every day.” But he’s secretly grateful for his mother’s praise, all too aware that the dice could have rolled another way and given him an abusive father or a neglectful mother. If the worst things Misty does are embarrass him and lavish him with adoration, Syd will happily take it.

“Are you going to dress up?” she asks. “It’s your first date, and you want to make a good impression.”

Syd snorts a laugh. “We’re going to a movie, not a wedding chapel. Besides, if you count ‘going out with a singular friend’ as a date, I’ve been on tons of dates with Taehyun.” Taehyun is studying in his room, which allows Syd to say this without reproach. And it’s also Syd’s way of feeling out his mother’s views on the subject of him actually dating Taehyun, or at least having a prurient interest in guys.

Misty puts her hands on her hips. “Is that so? Well, does he know you’re cheating on him?” She can give as good as she gets, and her teasing makes the blood in Syd’s cheeks run hot.

“I’m sure he’s in there moping about it,” Syd says, sticking a thumb out at the closed bedroom door. He’s only half-joking, but Taehyun has been oddly cold with him lately… 

“Are you relieved I’m not gay?” Syd asks, though he’s not entirely sure that’s true. His excitement about his date with Carrie is mostly gratitude and pride that he’s been deemed attractive enough to ask out. He isn’t thinking about sex or making out in the back seat of his car or even copping a feel in the darkened theater.

“I’m happy you’re happy,” Misty says, “whatever that looks like for you.”

“Spoken like a politician, Mom. You should run for president.”

“I’m serious. I’ll love and support you no matter what. You’re my son.”

That’s too much sincerity, and Syd has to deflect it. “Even if I was the Unabomber? Or Timothy McVeigh? Or _Hitler_?”

“What do you want me to say? ‘I can excuse murder, but I draw the line at homosexuality’?” Misty shakes her head. “You’re being silly. Just go on your date and have fun, and don’t worry so much.”

He takes a shower and spends a good twenty minutes blowing his long hair dry. This has never been a problem for him before; usually he lets it air-dry overnight. He also decides against wearing his usual backwards baseball cap. He’ll be meeting Carrie’s parents (or at least dropping by the house to pick her up) and fears a cap might give the wrong impression. 

Carrie lives about five minutes away in a small suburb. The house is a two-story Colonial with meticulously trimmed shrubbery out front. He walks up and rings the bell, and he can hear the chime ring from inside. 

Carrie greets him at the door, and her makeup is more subdued from her usual gothic fare. Syd suspects her parents wouldn’t let her leave the house for a date in thick eyeliner and dark red lipstick.

“Hey! Come on in. My parents want to meet you.” She gives him a commiserating eyeroll, as though acknowledging the lameness of parents.

He steps inside and tries not to marvel at how fancy everything is. All of the furniture looks showroom-new, and the decor sticks to a central theme—modern minimalism—rather than being a mishmash of neat things Mom found at Kmart or the thrift store. The grandiosity of it fills him with jealousy, until he remembers these are the fruits of a two-parent income. Misty has done rather well for the two of them (three now, with Taehyun), all things considered. He supposes his father must send support checks every now and then, but he has never dug too deeply into the state of the Reeds’ finances. 

“My dad is a real estate agent,” Carrie tells him, perhaps sensing his envy. “And my mom is a dental hygienist.”

“I guess that explains it,” Syd murmurs.

He meets her parents in the dining room, where they are gathered at the table. Syd is reminded of the sit-downs in mafia movies before somebody gets whacked outside (or inside) the restaurant. He laughs nervously and joins them there, alongside Carrie. 

“So, you’re Syd,” Mrs. Brown says. She’s a pleasant-looking woman with medium-length blonde hair and trendy glasses. If Syd had to guess, he’d wager that Carrie gets her looks from her mom. “Carrie’s told us so much about you.”

“Really?” Syd looks at Carrie. He has never imagined himself as someone other people talk about when he’s gone, especially in a positive light. He has mostly been a shadow in the school halls, acknowledged briefly then forgotten.

Carrie blushes. “Not in, like, a bad way. Just that you’re someone I hang out with. And that you and your mom are hosting an exchange student.”

“What’s that like?” Mr. Brown asks with genuine interest. “Hosting a foreigner?” He looks like every TV dad Syd has ever seen: brown hair, glasses, plaid button-up shirt. 

Carrie makes a quiet groaning sound.

“He’s nice. His English is really good,” Syd says, feeling oddly defensive of Taehyun. “It’s cool having someone my age around the house. I always kinda wanted a brother or sister.”

“You’re an only child?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Carrie’s sister Josie just started her first year at UCLA,” Mrs. Brown interjects. “Are you thinking about college, Syd?”

This catches him slightly off-guard. “I’ll probably do something with computers. Programming or design or something like that.” Parents tend not to understand technology beyond logging into AOL, so this answer usually satisfies the ‘what are you doing after high school’ question.

“Carrie said you were smart,” Mrs. Brown observes with a sly smile. Carrie groans again and sinks into her chair.

“I used to be,” Syd jokes. “Not sure if I still am.”

“Can we go now, please?” Carrie asks with a strained edge of pleading. “We wanted to eat before the movie starts.”

“Good idea,” Mr. Brown says, rising from his seat. “No sense in overpaying for popcorn and sodas.”

Syd shakes hands with the parents, and Carrie tries to get the two of them moving. “Be back by eleven,” Mrs. Brown reminds them.

“Yes, ma’am,” Syd says before they’re out the door.

“Sorry, my parents are such dorks,” Carrie says, settling into the passenger seat of Syd’s car. 

“All parents are. And at least your dad didn’t threaten to castrate me or anything.”

“No, he only did that when boys came to take Josie out,” Carrie sneers.

“You don’t like your sister?”

“She’s the golden child. She’s even named after a better song.” Carrie notices Syd’s confused expression. “My parents thought they were clever naming us after songs. I got ‘Carrie-Ann’ by the Hollies, and Josie got the Steely Dan song.”

Syd snorts a laugh. “My mom named me after Syd Barrett of Pink Floyd. Which she thinks is supposed to be charming but is really foreboding.” He gets them on the road, heading for a pizza joint near the movie theater.

“You’re lucky you don’t have siblings,” Carrie says. “You don’t have to feel like you’re never good enough.”

“I feel that way all the time,” Syd tells her. “My mom had trouble having more kids, so she got stuck with me and had to make the best of it. But that void of wanting more kids has always been there. I guess that’s why she became a teacher. And why she wanted to host an exchange student.”

At the restaurant, they order a pizza with Syd’s favorite toppings: pepperonis and green peppers. Carrie asks, “What did you mean when you said you used to be smart?”

“I was in one of those advanced programs in elementary school,” Syd says. “Half the kids were in there for being smart, and the other half were dumbasses with parents who knew how to pull strings. Everybody was trying to outperform everyone else. The teachers were practically Nazis, expecting perfection out of kids who haven’t even hit puberty yet. And there was always this huge chasm between the ‘smart kids’ and everyone else. The normies wouldn’t talk to you ‘cause they thought you were stuck-up or uncool for being smart. It was a fucking mess. I hated it, but dropping out would disappoint my parents, ‘cause they always bragged about me being one of the ‘smart kids.’”

“But you did quit eventually?”

“During the summer after sixth grade. My mom asked me what was wrong and I just… broke. Spilled everything. She said I should’ve told her sooner, but she was really supportive. I wish I had known better; none of that shit really matters. Colleges only care about high school grades anyway. And now I’m, like, a genius in regular classes, pulling in As and Bs without trying too hard. I’m sure there will come a time when I can’t coast anymore, but I try not to think too much about the future.”

“All I do is think about it,” Carrie admits. “My parents expect me to be a carbon-copy of my perfect sister, which I’m not. It’s probably going to kill them to hear I’m planning on community college over some big-name university. But my dad is frugal; maybe I can win him over with the financial angle.”

“How did you fall in with Reb and the others?” Syd asks.

“I used to work with Derek at a sandwich shop one summer. We got to know each other. We actually went to junior prom together last year.”

“Should I be worried?” The last thing Syd wants to do is get involved in a love triangle, though he supposes he might already be in one.

“I don’t think so. Lately, Derek’s more interested in Reb than anything else. According to Jesse, they shoot fireworks and do stupid guy stuff like that.”

“On behalf of my gender, I’m sorry.” It seems like the thing to say, and it makes her laugh. 

At the theater, they buy tickets for a rom-com and sneak into Blade. “I know you could’ve just bought the tickets for us,” Syd whispers as they take two seats in the back, “but it’s more fun like this.” He has gotten himself and Taehyun into a great deal of R-rated movies this way.

They don’t try to kiss or hold hands during the movie; it’s too enthralling to look away from the screen. But Syd thinks about the contrast between his time in the dark with Taehyun and Carrie. He could easily drop an arm across the back of her chair as an excuse to touch her hair or her shoulder. No one would bat an eye—if anyone were paying attention to them—and Carrie probably wouldn’t mind either. She could get away with a hand on his thigh, if she were so inclined. 

But the ease with which they could do these things bores Syd. He likes the way his heart races when he thinks about touching Taehyun in a darkened theater, or even in the privacy of their basement. He likes the excited curl in his stomach at the idea of kissing him or tracing a finger down the line of his neck. With Taehyun, there is a dizzy whirl of emotions, a cocktail of adolescent lust and desire. He has never felt these things for anyone else. 

On the walk to the car, Carrie asks, “Do you want to have sex?” so casually Syd almost doesn’t register what she’s said. But the word “sex” snags his attention, and hits him with a jolt. 

“What?”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, of course. You just seemed tense.”

Syd stammers, “I’ve actually never…”

“I have. It’s not a big deal.”

“O—okay.”

Syd’s car is parked behind the theater, where the crowd has already thinned. They climb into the back, and Carrie fiddles with the front seat so Syd has more legroom. His heart is pounding now, for new and terrifying reasons. What if he can’t get hard? What if he’s no good at all, and Carrie is left disappointed? What if he blows his load before he’s even inside her? The potential for disaster overwhelms him. “I—I didn’t bring anything…” he mumbles.

“Good thing I came prepared.” Carrie plucks a condom from her clutch bag. She’s sitting in his lap, and Syd hears himself swallow. It’s a loud gulp in the quiet car, like the noise a cartoon character makes before falling to their death.

“Who have you done this with?” Syd asks to keep his mind on something else.

“Derek, mostly.” She unzips him, and the sensation of someone touching his dick excites him just enough not to be limp in her hand. Her kiss tastes like the mint gum she chewed during the movie. The windows are already steaming up. She works the rubber over his cock with one hand, pushing the other underneath his shirt. His entire body feels like an exposed nerve ending, each new sensation setting off fireworks as he is touched all over. He pushes up her skirt, then she is sinking down on him, and he is engulfed. His head drops back, and he is aware of the weight of her in his lap, of the wet heat around his cock. He’s shaking, and she kisses him again. He can smell her perfume.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, sliding her hands up his torso. “Just do what feels right.”

His hands settle on her thighs. He has always appreciated nice legs, often imagines thrusting his dick between a closed pair of thighs. She’s riding him, taking him in anew each time.

Carrie uses Syd’s knees to steady herself, and her pale, round breasts are exposed inside her open blouse. He figures he’s supposed to touch them, so he does, and she groans. He lifts his hips, wanting to be deeper, and her thighs quiver. Their hips clash this way for some time, until her breath begins to come in short little gasps. Syd, desperate to finish so he doesn’t look pathetic, tries to recall the last fantasy that got him off, but his brain is full of shitty technicians flipping all the wrong switches; he associates Taehyun with boners and orgasms now, and this has set off some kind of nuclear reactor in Syd’s head. 

_Don’t you go down this road, idiot_ , warns the last sane man in Syd’s head. _You get picked up in that cyclone, there’s no reaching the storm cellar._

Syd wonders where that sanctimonious voice was the last ten times he stroked himself off thinking of Taehyun. Forget the storm cellar; the tornado already ate him up and spat him out in the magical land of Oz. Syd imagines gripping Taehyun’s hips this way and sliding into him. The idea has him hard already, and he chases it: _Taehyun making the noises Carrie’s making, Taehyun’s thighs clutched in Syd’s hands, Taehyun riding his cock like this, moaning Korean swear words as he comes._ Syd’s orgasm slams into him with a sudden jolt, and he has to bite his tongue to keep the name inside. 

“Did you come?” Carrie asks, her pace and breath slowing. Syd tells her he did, and she slides off his lap, landing in the seat beside him.

“Did you?” Syd would feel like a failure if Carrie didn’t orgasm, despite his near inability to climax himself.

“Yeah.” Carrie squeezes her thighs together and drops her head against the back of the seat, as if to punctuate the point. “Was it good?”

“Yeah. You?”

She nods. “But I think I prefer girls, no offense.”

Syd gasps. “You’re a lesbian?”

“Bisexual,” she corrects kindly. “Guys are fun, but I’m more attracted to girls.”

“You’ve slept with other girls?”

“It’s not my business to name names,” Carrie says, “but yeah.”

Syd sighs in relief and slumps a little. A tiny laugh escapes his throat. “I think I’m a little gay too.” He’s said it out loud now, and it doesn’t seem to have altered the fabric of space-time. Maybe it’s not the earth-shattering, life-ruining thing he thought it would be. 

“I hope that’s not because of me,” Carrie says, light-hearted.

He laughs again. “No, I was thinking about it before…” He runs a hand through his hair, gazing at the roof of the car while Carrie smooths down her skirt. “How do you do it? I mean, how can you tell someone’s… _into_ you?”

“Do you have someone in mind?”

“It’s not my business to name names,” Syd jokes.

Carrie smirks. “I guess you just _know_. You pick up a vibe. But I think girls are better at that sort of thing. Guys can be so obtuse.”

Maybe, maybe not. Syd has detected vibes, though they’re usually related to him being in some kind of trouble rather than someone’s attraction to him. He hadn’t picked up on Carrie’s interest in him until she asked. If, in some bizarre twist of fate, Taehyun had feelings for him, could Syd detect them? Saving face is important in Korean culture; Taehyun would probably rather die than risk acting on feelings he isn’t certain are reciprocated.

“Now I know why they call it Home _coming_ ,” Syd jokes, and Carrie groans. She waits until the color has faded from her cheeks, then Syd takes her home. She kisses him on the cheek as she leaves. He watches until she’s safely inside before driving away.

* * *

Syd swings by Taehyun’s room around ten forty-five p.m. Taehyun’s curled up in bed, reading one of Misty’s dog-eared mystery novels. “Dude, get dressed. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Taehyun looks at him. “I don’t know if I like the sound of that.”

“C’mon. You’ll like it. It’s not anything gross. I promise.”

Syd leaves the room to call to Reb and Derek. The drive takes about thirty minutes, and Syd brings them to a lake with walking trails around the circumference of the water. He passes by Reb’s car and signals for five more minutes. Reb drives around to the other side of the lake. 

Syd has to use a flashlight to navigate them from the parking lot down the slight incline to the trail. It’s country-dark out here, far from the arcing sodium lights of the city. There are specks of light in the distance, the far-away glow of still-open businesses, but nothing to illuminate the path after sundown. 

“Are we meeting a hitman?” Taehyun wonders, still half-asleep. 

“Just sit with me and wait.” There’s an empty bench, and Syd guides him there. He hears the chirp of crickets in the reeds, the throaty croaks of frogs at the water’s edge. “Today’s something special for you, isn’t it?” Syd keeps the flashlight on so he can see Taehyun’s face.

“ _Gaecheonjeol,_ ” Taehyun says, still seeming unsure where Syd’s going with this. “It celebrates the founding of the first Korean state of Gojoseon. Then tomorrow is the day before _Chuseok_ , then _Chuseok_ itself, then the day after. Then the 9th is _Hangeul_ Day.”

“What’s that?”

“A day of celebration for our alphabet. For the last few years, though, it hasn’t been a national holiday. I suppose that’s for the economy’s benefit.”

“You guys have a holiday for the alphabet?” Syd snickers.

“And you have a holiday where you hide eggs for a rabbit,” Taehyun points out.

Syd supposes Easter is absolutely wild to a foreigner with zero context about its origins. “Okay, point taken.”

There’s a whistle in the distance as a comet tail ascends, then an explosion of spherical lights in the sky. The red reflection shimmers across the lake. The fireworks have begun. Taehyun gasps, awed, as another peony bursts into multi-colored pieces. “You did this?” he asks, as more and more colorful comets crackle in the sky. 

“With a little help.” Syd watches the fireworks reflected in Taehyun’s eyes. If this were a scene in a movie, he would kiss Taehyun right here, but Syd doesn’t want him distracted from the fireworks display. This took him a hell of a time to put together.

One after another, fireworks light up the sky like bombs. There are gold and silver willows that look like palm trees, bright pearls of color that shoot upward like bullets, blinking strobe stars that look like shimmering water in the sky. The colors are random, some cycling through the color wheel with each effect, others staying monochromatic as they pop and burn out. Syd observes Taehyun from the corner of his eye and feels a flush that warms his entire body, a flush even Carrie hadn’t managed to rouse from him.

Each explosion ignites the sky like Zeus’s flashes of lightning, illuminating the falling smoke in the air. There are colorful flash-bangs, stars that crackle and fizzle like pop-rocks. Syd wishes the show could go on forever, but he is well aware of the finite amount of fireworks he bought. He probably owes Reb and Derek each a doozy of a favor after this. 

It’s a short affair, maybe about two minutes total and lacking any real finale, but worth it all for the look of adoration on Taehyun’s face. “Thank you,” he says, his eyes sparkling. “You are the kindest friend I have ever had.” 

For half a second, Syd moves to kiss him but stops. Taehyun is too goddamn gorgeous, and Syd is helpless in the face of such beauty.

“Doubtful, but you’re welcome.” Instead, Syd throws a hand around Taehyun’s shoulders, the way he ought to have done with Carrie in the theater. Taehyun doesn’t flinch or scoot away. The warm press of his body is heaven, and Syd will play this moment over and over in his mind tonight as he tries to fall asleep. “Happy _Gaecheonjeol_.”

* * *

Syd’s Journal - October 3rd, 1998

_Well, folks, today is a very important day: I GOT LAID!!!! F U C K Y E S!!! It feels good to have that one under my belt (pun intended). The actual sex was okay, I guess. Wasn’t really my thing. I had to think about Taehyun so I could cum… but when I did… DAEBAK! (as Taehyun says, heh heh)_

_But the BEST part of the whole evening was the fireworks I set up for Taehyun. We went to Crown Lake, and Reb and Derek shot off the haul I bought. It only lasted about two minutes, but it made Taehyun so damn happy. Ugh. I love him. There, I said it. I’m a huge fucking queer!!!!!_

_Next time I get laid, it’s gonna be with him. That’s my fucking goal now. I’m motivated. Since losing my v-card, I feel more confident, stronger. Maybe I could get him drunk enough to experiment with me. Not in a rapey way or anything, just to lower his inhibitions. He’s so uptight sometimes. Makes me want to fuck him ‘til he’s shaking and leaking jizz. I’ll be the battering ram of his fuckin dreams, heh heh. Mmmmm…_

* * *

_October 4th, 1998_

“How was your date?” Misty asks Syd over breakfast. She conceals a knowing smile behind her mug of coffee. 

_Which one_ , Syd thinks with sly amusement. While he supposes she might be aware something within him has changed, his “date” with Taehyun feels more secretive than the loss of his virginity. “Oh, fine.”

“Do anything fun?”

“We just went for pizza and saw a movie. No big deal.”

“It’s your first real date. It’s kind of a big deal.”

“If you want to live vicariously through my love life, I hope you like disappointment.”

“Does that mean you broke up?”

Syd makes a face. “We weren’t even together. We’re just friends.” He’s not sure how to classify Carrie now. He thinks they’re still friends, but the sex adds a certain element of weirdness and ambiguity. 

“Are you disappointed?”

“No. I like having friends.”

Taehyun emerges from his room looking as if he’s seen better days. His eyes are red and puffy, like he’s been crying. “Dude, you okay?” Syd asks.

Taehyun freezes, the way a deer might in the face of an oncoming Mack truck. 

“Oh, honey, what’s wrong?” Misty asks him.

“I—I am homesick,” Taehyun stammers, suddenly finding his voice. “Excuse me.” He slips into the guest bathroom and shuts the door.

“Poor baby,” Misty says, staring into her coffee. “This must be so hard for him.”

“He seemed okay last night,” Syd muses aloud. Had he noticed any trace of homesickness in Taehyun’s face last night? No, far from it, Syd is certain. The closest thing to homesickness he’s ever felt himself was the initial separation of his parents, losing his father to another woman in another state. But he had his mother to make the transition easier. Taehyun is all alone, his family oceans away. Though he has written letters home and received correspondence, a handwritten letter or postcard can’t replace hearing a loved one’s voice or the familiar warmth of their hugs.

“I hope recreating _Chuseok_ for him doesn’t make things worse,” Misty says. 

“I think he appreciates us making the effort, at least.” Or maybe the fireworks display was all fine and dandy until Taehyun realized he’s stuck in a foreign country with only a loser like Syd to celebrate with, instead of his own family. That would break anyone’s spirit.

When Taehyun exits the bathroom, his face a little less flushed, Misty says, “Taehyun, you can give your folks a call if you want. It’s a holiday; I think they’ll be happy to accept the charges.” Syd can only wonder what that long-distance bill would look like.

“Oh… Thank you. But it’s very late there—or very early, I suppose. I will wait a few hours, if that’s okay.” He joins them at the table, where they’re eating blueberry muffins. 

“Do you still want to help make the food for _Chuseok_?” Misty asks him.

“Yes, of course. I’m grateful you want to help me feel more at home.”

They spend the afternoon on the couch in the living room, watching TV with Misty. She’s fond of shows like _Designing Women_ and _The Golden Girls_ , and Syd often watched them with her on weekends and sick days before Taehyun came to live with them. It’s the only family-centric activity he can think of on short notice. Even the cat, Arlene, joins the three of them, curled up on top of the couch like a furry sentinel.

“Do you have a big extended family back home?” Misty asks Taehyun.

“Yes, on holidays like _Chuseok_ , we stay with my uncle in Gangnam. He is a cosmetic surgeon, and he lives in a mansion. His house has room for everyone: my grandparents, my aunts and uncles and cousins. It was really fun the first few years, but as I got older, it lost something. My father feels competitive with his brother, and my grandfather likes to talk about how different their career paths are. When the liquor comes out, they argue a lot.” 

“It’s not a real Thanksgiving until somebody storms out of the house in a huff,” Syd points out. “After my parents split, my mom took a lot of crap for being a single mother.”

“Your uncle Tom used to joke that without a steady father figure in your life, you’d be dressing like a goth, doing drugs, and reading magazines devoted to guns by the time you were fifteen,” Misty says.

“Two out of three ain’t bad,” Syd says, and Misty gives him a reproachful look.

Taehyun says, “I’m afraid my parents’ marriage will dissolve in my absence.” This is an abruptly candid remark from him, and Syd is taken aback. “I don’t know if they have the kind of marriage that can weather financial troubles. Without me as a distraction, they will see what’s in front of them.”

“If that happens,” Misty warns him, “I want you to know it has nothing to do with you.”

“I know,” Taehyun says. “But it’s still sad to see the people you love no longer loving each other.”

Syd is reminded of his own parents and swallows the lump in his throat. He remembers shuttling back and forth from this home to his father’s apartment, listening to the quiet, tinny radio in the guest room while he played his Game Boy by nightlight in bed. Dad had been rooming with a co-worker after Misty kicked him out; thus the apartment felt perpetually strange, as though Syd was trespassing. 

In the evening, Taehyun shows them how to make _songpyeon,_ a traditional dumpling filled with sesame seeds, red beans, and chestnuts. They use the special ingredients Misty bought earlier in the week, following a recipe she printed off the internet. Syd runs out to a neighbor’s yard and fetches the pine needles necessary for the dumpling steaming process. According to Taehyun, the whole family makes _songpyeon_ together on the eve of _Chuseok._ “Making a perfectly-shaped _songpyeon_ brings good luck,” he says while they roll the dumplings into little eggs. 

While the dumplings steam, Taehyun helps make the pancakes, which he calls _jeon_. They are fried and battered pieces of fish, vegetables, and meat, reminiscent of appetizers like fried mozzarella, mushrooms, or zucchini slices. 

When the food is ready and the table is set, Misty says, “It’s a special occasion, so you boys can have a drink or two.” Her alcohol policy is surprisingly lax, allowing Syd to drink as long as she can supervise. Anything beyond two drinks makes him fall asleep, and Misty can make sure he’s not driving drunk or mixing alcohol with anything dangerous. Taehyun prefers the smooth taste of Irish Coffee, while Syd mixes vodka with ginger ale; Misty always keeps a bottle of Smirnoff around for her Cosmos. 

Spread across the table are leftover packets of soy and duck sauce from Chinese takeout, used as dip for the _jeon_. The flavors are surprisingly complementary. 

“Did you learn how to cook from your father?” Misty asks Taehyun. He did mention his dad owns a restaurant.

Taehyun nods. “My father takes care of the cooking in our house for special occasions. My mother can cook basic things like soups. I helped her cook sometimes when I got older. I like it. There’s something satisfying about eating food that you made yourself.”

“I took a cooking class last year for a Home Ec credit,” Syd says. “It was an easy A.”

“We also exchange gifts for _Chuseok_ ,” Taehyun says. “Gift boxes are very popular.”

“We have those too, mostly for Christmas, but no one really likes getting them,” Syd says. 

“You have already given me your gift,” Taehyun says. “Much better than a gift box.”

“Oh yeah? What was it?” Misty asks.

Taehyun supplies an answer while Syd takes a long drink. “He brought me to a lake to watch fireworks last night.”

Misty gives Syd a curious, knowing look. “You did?”

Heat rushes underneath Syd’s cheeks. “Yesterday was a holiday for him, too. I was just doing something nice.” He doesn’t want to downplay the event for Taehyun, but he doesn’t want his mother getting the wrong idea, either. Although, if Misty assumed Syd put on the fireworks show because he has a crush on Taehyun, she would be right on the money. 

“Where did you get fireworks?” Misty wonders.

“A fireworks stand.”

“They don’t sell those in the city limits, do they?”

“I had to drive a little bit,” Syd says, which is an understatement. The nearest fireworks stand in the Denver area is across state lines in Wyoming.

“Are you even old enough to buy them?”

“Sixteen, yeah. But I brought some friends with me just in case. And you went to the Asian market to get all the stuff for this food,” Syd points out. It’s embarrassing to have the extent of his effort on display, especially with Taehyun _right here_. 

“I did, but the market is fifteen minutes away.” Misty looks at him as if to say, ‘what’s your excuse?’

Syd takes another drink. His face feels incredibly hot, like he’s being grilled on the witness stand in a murder trial. If Misty keeps questioning him, he’ll likely break down and confess the way witnesses do in episodes of _Perry Mason_ or _Law and Order_. Syd refuses to look at Taehyun, but he’s all too aware of Taehyun watching him.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Misty says, noticing his nervous flush. “I think it’s sweet. I’ve never seen this considerate side of you before. Are you sure you’re still a teenager?”

“Pretty sure.” The uncontrollable arousal he feels when he’s around the object of his affection says he’s very much a teenager.

After dinner, Taehyun makes his phone call to his parents; it is mid-morning in Seoul, and he seems to know they will be home at this hour. While he chats with them in excited, fast Korean, Syd helps his mother clean up the kitchen. 

“If I didn’t know better,” Misty says in a soft voice, wiping down the counter, “I’d say you have a little crush on Taehyun.”

So, he’s fucked, then. “You can’t prove that. A jury would never buy it.”

“When was the last time you did anything _nice_ for someone without being told to?” 

Most of the recent instances that come to mind involve Taehyun in some way. “I help you with stuff,” he says lamely.

“Because I’m your mom, and you’d be in trouble if you didn’t.”

Syd huffs, taking in a breath and straightening his shoulders as if trying to intimidate her with his full height. “That’s not fair. I haven’t had friends to do nice things for until now. All of this is inadmissible.” Misty watches a lot of courtroom shows; he’s just trying to speak her language.

Misty smiles, looking amused by his childish persistence. A few long strands of hair are caught underneath his backwards cap, and she brushes them out of his face. “It’s not the end of the world to have a crush on a boy.”

“Can we not talk about this like I’m in kindergarten? Crushes are lame.” He can feel patches of embarrassment rising in his cheeks, and he hears the waver in his voice. When Syd is cornered, he usually blows up in a fit of fury like a wounded animal, but that’s not really an option with his mother, so angry tears are his only resort against her. It’s not something he does in hopes of manipulation, it just slips out of him like a leak. “And it doesn’t even matter anyway. Just leave me alone.” He turns away, struggling against the sting of tears in his eyes and the frog in his throat. 

“Okay, okay,” Misty coos, as though calming one of her red-faced kindergarteners. “I’m sorry. I won’t bring it up again.”

Syd wipes his eyes with his sleeve. “I never wanted to be like this.” He doesn’t elaborate—like what? Gay? Crying over a boy? Emotionally constipated? All of the above?—and Misty doesn’t ask him to.

“I love you, no matter what.”

“Promise?” he asks, his voice quivering, and she hugs him tightly, as if trying to break something.

* * *

Syd’s Journal - October 6th, 1998

_HELL YEAH!!! Reb scored us all tickets to the Family Values tour with Rammstein, KoRn, Orgy, Limp Bizkit, and Ice Cube. It was FUCKING AWESOME!!!!!! Even Taehyun had a good time—he loves “Bück dich" which is ironic as fuck considering the gay as FUCK stage performance… The last concert I went to was last year when KMFDM came, with Rammstein as the opening act. I’ve never gone to a concert with friends before, mostly because I never had any friends. My mom would always go with me, but she was more like a liability, a chaperone to make sure a stranger didn’t lure me into his car with promises of concert T-shirts or something._

_Tonight was fun, and I feel like I missed out by treating concerts like a solitary activity. Rammstein ripped the hell outta their set. KoRn was awesome. I always thought Orgy was just okay, but Taehyun really likes them, so maybe I’ll give Candyass another listen. I liked their version of Blue Monday… And Stitches is okay too._

_After the show we went to a Mexican place by the arena. Taehyun loves tacos, I guess. He’s really cute when he tries to say Spanish words. Heh heh. I wish it could’ve been a date, but it was probably more fun with Carrie, Reb, Derek, and Jesse along for the ride._

* * *

_October 14th, 1998_

It’s a Wednesday afternoon, and Syd is spending his post-school time with Reb and the others. At least Taehyun assumes so; Syd could theoretically be doing anything, but today is his one of his scheduled Rebel days. Taehyun likes that they have a hang-out schedule, that he doesn’t feel the need to audition for Syd’s time anymore. 

Part of Taehyun has always assumed Syd will leave him for greener pastures; that’s the way it’s been for him, being shuffled around from city to city while his mother worked as a _sanhujorisa_ , a care worker for women after childbirth. Every few years her work would take her to a new city or province— _sanhujorisa_ were often in high demand, and caring for the wives of rich businessmen ensured a good, steady paycheck—and Taehyun would be left to start from scratch at a new school.

Syd is no different from the many friendships Taehyun left behind after each move. He will stay here until graduating high school, then the primordial call of family and duty will bring him back to South Korea for his two-year mandatory military service. Then what? Come back to the States, throw his Korean citizenship away for his high school crush and the promises of a new, exciting country? Or stay in his homeland to live a pre-determined, unauthentic life? 

His parents would say he is unreasonable and foolish to even consider making a life here. He cannot be a citizen of both countries at the same time. A decision must be made whether he will live here in America beyond completing his studies. Such a thing would bring shame and dishonor to his family, and Taehyun’s parents have always pegged him as the responsible one. While his brother Chanyeol is the dreamer, Taehyun has been raised to be more practical. Perhaps his parents saw Chanyeol’s fierce rebellious streak and pinned all their hopes on Taehyun. 

These are the thoughts on his mind as he straightens up the basement. He tries to keep things tidy when he’s down here, but Syd usually stays after Taehyun goes to bed and makes a mess of the place. Taehyun’s used to living in small, cramped quarters, so tidiness is something that has come somewhat naturally to him. Syd seems accustomed to having someone pick up after him, and it shows. He has left small stacks of video game jewel cases on the floor near the entertainment center. Controller cords line the floor like the power supplies to a rock concert. Baseball cards and Pogs are scattered around, not to mention the carpet of crumbs, debris from potato chips and popcorn. Taehyun uses Misty’s hand-vac to sweep the floor. He ends up emptying the small debris container three times before he’s finished. 

The sofa is a tattered mess of sweat-stink and crumbs. He runs the hand-vac over the cushions before lifting each one up to siphon stray popcorn kernels and Dorito crumbs. Occasionally he finds coinage, which he accumulates in his front pocket. He’ll dump the coins into a communal tray later. 

Underneath one of the couch cushions he finds a red spiral-bound notebook. At first Taehyun thinks it’s a class notebook, though he can’t recall ever seeing Syd carry it at school. The cover is laden with logos of rock bands and German phrases etched in pen. A scrawl on the front reads: _This journal cannot be opened by anyone NOT Syd! Some supernatural force blocks common people from entering._

Amused, Taehyun opens the front cover. So much for supernatural protection. Inside, the lined pages are covered with nonsensical drawings of symbols, _Doom_ creatures, and guns. Beyond the drawings come pages packed tight with blue, black, and red penmanship. There are furious scribbles crossing out words, lots of underlining, makeshift boldface, and notes cramped into the margins. A few of the bolded words jump out at him, mostly profanities and violent words.

_Leave this alone_ , he thinks. _These are Syd’s private thoughts, and it’s best they stay that way._

And maybe he could leave it alone if it were anyone else’s journal, but this is Syd, the guy Taehyun’s been crushing on since the day they met. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see what Syd really thinks—and, more importantly, what Syd thinks about _him_. On a more altruistic note, he tells himself, this is an opportunity to see if Syd is struggling with depression or suicidal thoughts—certainly Syd has joked about suicide too often for it to be a coincidence. 

The journal entries start a few months before Taehyun ever came to Colorado, and he gives these pages a passing glance or two. No telling when Syd will come home. Better get to the more recent stuff. But he catches sight of a few choice sections here and there as he flips the pages:

*

_I wonder how/when I got so fucked up… my mind, existence, problems… I wish I could stop being at war with myself, the world, the universe, my mind, my body…_

_*_

_So sick of these snotty-ass rich motherfucking high-strung attitude-having worthless piece of shit whores! Wish I could just gather all the koolio peeps in a bunker and then nuke this toilet earth. Fuck all these stupid fuckheads who think they’re better than me._

_*_

_Everyone is so corrupt and filled with self-righteousness and their selfish agendas. What’s the point of being smart and self-aware if only some people get what I’m saying????? There will always be ones who don’t, ones that are too dumb or naive or ignorant or just plain retarded. If I can’t pound it into every single person’s head then it is pointless!_

_*_

_Everyone knows everyone. I swear, it’s like I’m an outcast and everyone is conspiring against me. I feel so lonely without a friend._

_*_

_Why am I even alive? What do I have that’s good? A cool mom, a good house, food, some video games. But what’s bad: no friends, no girlfriend, my dad barely gives enough of a shit to send me a card for my birthday and visit once a year, no one accepts me even though I want to be accepted, I suck at sports, everyone is always making fun of me because of how I look, how fucking weak I am and shit, I have practically no self-esteem, especially concerning girls and looks and such. Therefore people make fun of me... constantly... therefore I get no respect and therefore I get fucking PISSED._

“Oh no,” Taehyun whimpers. He doesn’t know which is worse: the vitriolic screeds against the people Syd hates, or the glimpses of heartache and loneliness he has written here. Taehyun hopes some of this anger has simmered down, as most of the above entries were written months ago, but he’s not holding his breath.

He doesn’t want to see what waits for him, fearing some kind of direct condemnation in the pages, like Syd’s scrawl might speak to him personally with some harsh recrimination. But he knows he must read on, as instinctively as he knows he must breathe to stay alive.

With trembling, sweat-damp hands, he turns the pages. Here are the entries written after Taehyun arrived. His stomach becomes a ball of lead, sinking lower and lower. He reads the entry dated August 4th and gasps out loud:

_FUCK!!!!!! I think I have a crush. On A GUY!!! Like I wasn’t bully-meat already. UGH. Why can’t I just be fucking normal? […] Maybe I’m just confusing friend feelings for crush feelings. It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend, it makes sense I could confuse the two, right? Maybe this is what having a friend is like, and I’m just overreacting. Except you don’t wonder what your friends look like naked. Fuck. I should just kill myself now so I don’t have to think about it anymore._

The confessions of attraction melt things in Taehyun’s chest. He’s giddy, aware of a grin pushing against his cheeks. Syd has been crushing on him almost since the day they met. How did he hide it so well? Or maybe it wasn’t hidden at all, and Taehyun has been incredibly naive, misinterpreting Syd’s romantic gestures as simple kindness. 

Another entry gives Taehyun goosebumps and a delicious curl in his lower belly: _Ugh, I just want to pick him up, take him to my room, and suck his cock and fuck him hard. Maybe he could fuck me too? (GOD)_

Taehyun stares at the words, unable to fully process them. This has to be a dream. It’s too convenient for Syd to lay everything out in such explicit terms. There is no room for misinterpretation here, no comical misunderstandings that may result from reading this. It seems absurd that Syd has kept these feelings hidden for so long, grappling with them like a terminal diagnosis, but, then again, so has Taehyun. He’s just not writing them down.

Another page: _If any fucking jock shitheads push him around, I’ll tear them apart like a fucking wolf. Break their arms in half and twist them around._

And another: _I’ll be all smiles at the wedding, then I’ll be found hanging from the closet of my motel room after the reception. Fuck my life._

The hits keep coming: _If I go crazy and kill somebody, don’t blame Pulp Fiction or Mortal Kombat or my parents or Doom or the media. It would be ME! […] I wonder if that means Taehyun thinks I’m a psycho. Maybe I am. Could he learn to love me anyway?_

Should Taehyun be worried for Syd’s mental health? Such flippant talk of suicide over an innocent crush is easily the most terrible thing in these pages so far. Taehyun can’t remember ever feeling as violent and self-loathing as Syd describes. Is all of this a strictly American phenomenon?

Maybe Taehyun should tell Misty—leaving out the part where he read this journal—but what if it’s all just hyperbole? Syd is smart enough to figure out that Taehyun could have read the journal. Would Syd forgive him for such an invasion of privacy, especially if it lands him in trouble with his mother? 

And it wouldn’t just get him in hot water with Misty, either. Mental health is a taboo topic in Korea, and it might be here, too. Syd could be labeled as crazy or unstable for the rest of his life, all because Taehyun couldn’t tell exaggeration from a true cry for help. And that stigma certainly wouldn’t help Syd navigate the confusing world of high school. People would talk, and he would become even more isolated, thus fueling more suicidal thoughts.

The next few entries detail Syd’s excitement over his Homecoming date and the fireworks plan. But the biggest shock of all is a one-two punch: Syd lost his virginity on the 3rd _and_ thought about Taehyun while he did it. 

A noise from upstairs makes Taehyun jump. Is that Syd coming home from Reb’s? No, surely it was Misty closing a door or a cabinet. It’s still too early for Syd to be home. 

His gaze flicks back to the journal. This entry is a doozy: Syd brags that the next time he gets laid will be with Taehyun, and he goes on to detail some pretty graphic fantasies. It’s an entry devoid of his usual gloominess, and Taehyun enjoys this optimistic, confident side of Syd. The fact that he’s the focus of said confidence is just a plus. 

It’s a short-lived joy, because on the next page, Syd returns to his morose musings for October 5th’s entry: _A pretty good goddamn weekend! Mom and I helped Taehyun celebrate Chuseok with homemade Korean food. Probably a lame celebration considering what he’s used to, but he seemed happy, so I’m counting it as a win. Has he noticed the way I look at him or how I go out of my way to do nice things for him? If he has, he’s being nice about it, probably milking my sad, desperate ass for everything he can. But he must sense the fragility between us, like one wrong touch or word could cause a disaster._

_He is so pure and innocent, and I’m not. He’s right about me: I’m a goddamn psycho. But it’s not like I want to chop him up with an axe or something. I think of him every second of every day. I want to be with him! I imagine us doing things together, the sound of his laugh, I picture his face, I love him. But I would ruin him with my shittiness if we ever got that close, so we can only be “just friends.” _

_It hurts like fuck, but I can’t show too much of myself, my views or thoughts. He might start to wonder; he’s smart, he’ll get nosy and something might happen to fuck me over. I need to put on one helluva mask here to hide my inner darkness. Maybe staying in the all-encompassing dark is better; the darkness exists to keep insanity from flooding your senses. But if you go down there and start shining a flashlight into that black maw, you’ll see what crawls and lurks in there. And that will drive you well and truly mad._

Taehyun wants to reach inside this journal and somehow grab Syd and shake him, and tell him he’s not the worthless piece of shit he thinks he is. Coming from Taehyun, Syd might even believe it. The fact that Syd’s entry talks about shining a light into the darkness and finding horror there does not escape Taehyun. 

_No more,_ Taehyun thinks. _I can’t look at any more. What if I turn this page and find a suicide note? What if I_ don’t _? What if I just put this back where I found it, and Syd hurts himself? If something in this journal could help me stop him…_

Taehyun can tell there are only a few pages left by the way they lay flat against each other. With a deep breath, he turns the page. There’s a summary of their night at the Family Values Tour. Then, on the following page, the handwriting is much neater and more legible than Syd’s usual scrawl, indicating he might intend this page to be seen by someone else. 

_I love you. I wish I could tell you who I am in this letter, but I’m afraid that will change how you read it. What are we, anyway, but souls in human bodies, longing to find our mates? The shell shouldn’t matter as much as what or who is inside._

_I think about you all the time, how the world would be a better place if you loved me the way I love you. I think we have a lot in common: you are pensive, quiet, smart, a bit of an outsider. I don’t know if you think of anyone the way I think of you; maybe you’ll assume that person sent you this, and that would make you happy. Even if you never knew it was me, I would know. I live with your face on my heart. I would die for you with no hesitation at all._

_If you think I’m crazy for writing this, then I’m sorry for scaring you, and please don’t think twice about throwing this away. But if you have something to say, or want to find out who I am, leave a note in my locker (#624, combo: 19-37-9) and write whatever comes to mind. 바보처럼 너만 생각해._

Seeing Hangul written here throws Taehyun for a loop. He feels a stir in his heart: _Like a fool, I only think of you._ He doesn’t remember ever teaching Syd these words, let alone teaching him how to write Hangul. Syd must have taken to the internet for this, staring at web pages in the dark while he searched for the perfect phrase to encapsulate his feelings. 

A word rises to the surface of Taehyun’s mind— _saranghae_ —and he knows he _does_ love Syd beyond the trappings of a schoolboy crush. _I live with your face on my heart_ , Syd wrote, and Taehyun understands. 

The pages beyond the letter are blank. Taehyun closes the journal and sets it right where he found it, replaces the cushion on top. He mentions none of this to Misty beyond a casual question of, “Is Syd alright? He’s seemed a little depressed lately.” 

Syd comes home after dark and chats with Misty for a while before shutting himself in the bathroom. The shower begins to run, and Taehyun falls asleep waiting for Syd to emerge.

* * *

Taehyun gives it a week, but he never receives the letter from Syd. While Syd is at Reb’s again, Taehyun takes another quick jaunt to the basement to check the notebook. Maybe he’d read the whole situation wrong, and the letter was actually intended for someone else. But the letter is still there, untouched. The pages beyond it are still blank. Taehyun wonders if this is something he should worry about, but Syd seems like his usual, sardonic self.

_I need to put on one helluva mask here to hide my inner darkness,_ Syd wrote. Taehyun wonders what he might find if he were to remove the mask.

* * *

_October 31st, 1998_

The longer Taehyun waits for Syd’s letter to arrive in his locker, the more he second-guesses himself. Has he upset Syd, done or said something to extinguish Syd’s crush? It’s all that stupid journal’s fault. Something has changed between them; Taehyun is all too aware of Syd’s crush now, and this knowledge colors everything, like blood spreading through water. Taehyun’s actually grateful when he has time away from Syd, because it means not feeling Syd’s eyes on him like hot lasers. 

Of course, Taehyun could put an end to the whole ordeal if he knew the right way to admit his own crush to Syd. But just as Syd has kept his confessional letter to himself, Taehyun can’t find the proper moment to make such an admission. It has to feel natural, and Taehyun’s mentally kicking himself for wasting that perfect moment during the fireworks display. 

He’s reminded of the shenanigans of sitcoms, where one character wants to propose to another but keeps getting interrupted by a series of ridiculous circumstances. Or the storyline in _Friends_ where Rachel spends too much time deliberating her feelings for Ross, and Ross ends up dating another woman. Taehyun knows his life is not a sitcom, but it’s possible Syd might write off this crush as a pipe dream and focus his attention on someone else. 

Someone like… who? Carrie comes to mind, mostly because Taehyun knows Syd lost his virginity to her. But Reb or Derek might be a better fit for Syd, if they’re interested in guys. They all like the same things, and neither Reb or Derek would complain about gratituous violence when they watch movies together. They’re both older than Syd and seem more experienced than him, if those are things Syd’s attracted to.

Christ, the thought of having to watch Syd flirt with either of those guys makes Taehyun sick. 

Halloween rolls around, and Jesse, the youngest of the Rebels, hosts a party at his parents’ house. His mother is a flight attendant staying overnight in Los Angeles, and his father has scuttled off to a sports bar in town, giving Jesse until midnight to wrap up the festivities. Syd manages to convince Taehyun to come along to the party, even getting him to dress up as one half of the _Natural Born Killers_ duo. Taehyun didn’t particularly like the movie when he watched it with Syd, but the notion of a couple’s costume makes Taehyun’s heart do a nervous frog-leap in his throat. 

And, _fuck_ , Syd looks really hot, especially with his hair tied back to emphasize his cute face. Without his long hair to hide them, his ears stick out a bit, and Taehyun finds this endearing. He hopes Syd isn’t embarrassed by it.

Taehyun’s costume is mostly gender-neutral, just jeans, a blue vest over a yellow shirt with a smear of eyeliner to distinguish himself as Mallory, the female half of the _Natural Born Killers_ duo. On its own the costume is somewhat generic, but juxtaposed with Syd’s white T-shirt, white jeans, black gun holsters, and dark sunglasses, anyone familiar with the movie could place their costumes. Suddenly, Taehyun is nervous he and Syd will be outed as a couple, despite them not actually being one.

“Is this a thing friends do?” Taehyun asks while Syd’s pulling on his black boots. “Dress up in complementary costumes?” Taehyun does his best to avoid using the word ‘couple.’ He wants to see how Syd navigates this.

A flush rises in Syd’s cheeks, and if Taehyun hadn’t been staring at Syd’s face he wouldn’t have caught it. “I guess. I’m winging this whole ‘friend’ thing, remember?”

Yes, Taehyun remembers, but Syd can’t be this oblivious. He _has_ to know how this will look. “I know, but I—I don’t want you to be embarrassed if someone gets the wrong impression.” 

Syd stands up, and the boots add a few inches to his already intimidating height; Taehyun wants to climb him like a tree. “And what impression is that?”

“That we’re a couple.”

Syd’s mouth twitches into a half-smile, but there are spots of red burning high on his cheekbones. “Would it bother you if someone thought that?”

“No,” Taehyun says with a shrug, trying his best to sound casual. “You?”

“No,” Syd says, a little too quickly. “Of course not. I mean, you’re probably worrying too much. I doubt anyone’s gonna notice or care.”

So Syd just avoided the conversation entirely. Taehyun figures he’ll have to find the right moment tonight, or create one if he’s really desperate. It has to be organic, or else Syd will wonder where Taehyun found a sudden surge of confidence.

When Syd and Taehyun arrive at the party, Jesse greets them at the door, dressed as Jason Voorhees. “Hey, guys!” he says behind his hockey mask. “Who are you s’posed to be?”

Syd groans. “Natural Born Killers, dude.” He rolls his eyes and elbows his way inside. The sound system is blasting a Korn song.

Taehyun spots a familiar mop of orange hair and sees Reb is here. He’s dressed as Chucky from the _Child’s Play_ movies, clad in a striped shirt and overalls. Syd leads Taehyun inside, weaving through the crowd to where Reb has set the table with bottles of liquor. “Fucking nice,” Syd says, surveying the selection. “I knew you would make this party kick ass.”

“I brought your stuff, too,” Reb says, reaching into the large front pocket of his overalls. He withdraws a small baggie of marijuana, complete with rolling papers. Syd exchanges it for a twenty-dollar bill. 

“Fuck yeah. Thanks, dude.” Syd pockets the baggie in the back of his jeans. Taehyun watches them exchange a complicated handshake, before Syd pours himself a mix of vodka and Sprite in a red Solo cup. Taehyun takes a Coke can out of the cooler rather than imbibe any alcohol. He has a feeling Syd will need someone to keep him upright later.

“Come upstairs with me,” Syd murmurs into Taehyun’s ear, and Taehyun feels a delicious chill travel along his spine. 

The main floor of the house is filled with people neither of them know well; most are students Syd and Taehyun vaguely recognize from their classes. Some attendees look older than high school seniors; Reb must have invited some friends his own age. 

They go upstairs to Jesse’s room, where they find Derek taking a huge bong rip in the middle of the bed. He’s dressed as Charles Manson, wearing a neon orange prison jumpsuit and a ridiculous wig of crazy dark hair. He looks up at them, exhaling smoke through his lips and nose. A swastika is painted between his caterpillar-like eyebrows. “ _Guten tag,_ bitches,” he says. “Sick costumes. NBK!” He and Syd share a fist-bump. 

“I guess this is the smoker’s lounge,” Syd says. Jesse’s room is adorned with posters of KoRn and Marilyn Manson. He has a Nintendo 64 hooked up to the television. Above the bed is a blacklight poster of scantily-clad faeries.

“How many jizz stains do you think would show up if we turned on the blacklight?” Syd muses.

Derek laughs. “This place would look like a Jackson Pollock painting.” Syd and Taehyun join him on the bed. It’s a twin, so the three of them end up squished together somewhat uncomfortably. “How come you guys dressed up as a couple? Are you two fags?”

Taehyun blanches. He fucking _knew_ someone would notice.

“Shut up and pass the bong, Charlie,” Syd sneers. He holds his hand out for the bong, but Derek holds back.

“You need another bud, dipshit.” 

Syd takes out the baggie of weed from his pocket. “I got plenty.”

Derek hands him the KoRn CD case he was using as a cutting board. Syd breaks up a few of the buds with the school ID card in his wallet. “You get that shit from Reb?” Derek asks.

Syd says that he did. He loads the weed into the bowl, and Derek pours water into the glass pipe. Derek grabs a Bic from the night table and hands the bong and lighter to Syd. Syd takes the items from Derek, breathes in through the glass, and lights the bud. Within seconds, the chamber fills with smoke that then fills Syd’s lungs. 

Taehyun watches the bubbles percolate in the chamber, but he’s drawn to Syd’s expression of bliss. Even with his eyes closed, Syd looks as though he is at peace, content with the universe and his place within it. Taehyun wonders if that’s how Syd would look post-orgasm, or while getting his dick sucked. 

Blushing, Taehyun asks, “Have you done this before?”

Syd exhales slowly before saying, “Yeah, of course.” He shares a chuckle with Derek, coughs a few times. “What do you think we do at Reb’s?” He offers Taehyun the bong. “You wanna try? Hit it fast and you won’t need to light it again.”

Taehyun stares at the glass pipe. If he says no, he’ll look like a killjoy and, worst of all, a sissy. He doesn’t want to end up on Derek’s bad side by revealing himself as uncool. And he definitely doesn’t want to disappoint Syd, not when Syd may be considering him as a potential boyfriend. He supposes one puff ought to be alright.

Taehyun cautiously takes the bong from Syd’s hands and mimics his movements. He presses his lips to the mouthpiece and inhales. The smoke becomes a cold burn in his throat, then his chest and lungs. He can’t control the cough that bursts forth, and he hands the bong back to Syd.

“Fucking lightweight,” Derek says, laughing. 

“Give him a break. I bet they don’t even _have_ weed in Korea,” Syd says. 

“Bullshit,” Derek says. “Everybody has weed.”

Between coughs, Taehyun takes a drink from his Coke to soothe the burn. It helps a little, but there’s still a residual tickle in his throat. He hates being laughed at, especially in front of Syd. If Derek weren’t here, Taehyun would ask to try again, but he doesn’t want to fuck it up twice in front of them. Making an ass out of himself in front of Syd is bad enough, especially now that Taehyun knows about the crush. Everything he does now feels as though it’s under scrutiny. 

Derek takes the Bic and lights the bong to life again. He takes a long, deep rip and tilts his head back. Smoke billows from his nostrils in small streams. “Look, I’m a dragon.”

Taehyun wonders what else Syd does at Reb’s, if he’s ever done harder drugs. Maybe all they do is smoke pot and watch gory movies. But Taehyun fears that’s only the tip of the iceberg, and that Syd might fall into a habit of drug experimentation that could end in him turning out like his namesake, Syd Barrett. 

After a few more rips, Derek says, “Fuck, dude, I’m starving.” He slides off the bed, moving slowly. “I’m going downstairs for some pizza. Don’t break my fucking bong, you homos.” He leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.

Syd peers at Taehyun over the dark lenses of his sunglasses, which have slipped down his nose. “You wanna try again?” He offers Taehyun the bong. 

“I don’t really know how.”

“That’s okay. I know a trick. And it won’t hit you as hard.” 

Taehyun nods. He’s still a little unsure, but trusts Syd knows what he’s talking about. “Okay. What do I do?”

“I blow out smoke, and you breathe it in. That’s as easy as it gets.”

“Do you smoke a lot with them?”

“Sometimes, yeah. Does it matter?”

Taehyun hears confrontation in Syd’s words, even if it’s not really there. “I don’t know. I just—I hate being the person everyone thinks is a loser.”

Syd laughs, like the notion of Taehyun being unwanted is ridiculous. “What? No one has a problem with you, dude.” Though Taehyun doesn’t hang out with the Rebels after school, he does spend his lunch periods with them, mostly because Syd is there and the idea of eating lunch by himself is abysmal. 

Syd removes the sunglasses and hangs them on the neckline of his T-shirt. “You still wanna try?” he asks again, flicking the flame on the lighter. “You gotta get really close so I can pass the smoke to you.”

Taehyun will take advantage of any excuse to get close to Syd. He scoots forward on the bed, setting his can of Coke on the bedside table.

“Closer.”

Taehyun ends up right alongside Syd, their shoulders pressed together while Syd relights the bong. He takes a long, deep hit, leaning in to Taehyun’s already negligible personal space. Syd beckons him even closer with a finger, and Taehyun moves in. Syd wraps a hand around the back of Taehyun’s neck to bring him nearer. 

Taehyun is keenly aware of the way Syd’s fingers play with his hair, the way his own heart thumps behind his ribs. He has never been this physically close to another person’s face, especially not Syd’s. He takes a moment to study him up close: the soft array of freckles over his cheeks, the faint stubble on his jaw, the small red bump he made while shaving the other day. Syd is staring at him—no, _gazing_ —his eyes hooded and faintly reddened. A surge of lust and panic strikes Taehyun, but before he can think too hard about it, Syd’s exhaling in a slow trickle. 

Taehyun’s mouth opens as if receiving a kiss. He was expecting ( _hoping for_ ) a kiss, but he supposes this is even more intimate: the moment right before a kiss, extended and frozen. He catches the smoke, drawing it in deep, and finds it tastes like lemon-pine. Syd’s eyes are closed now, and Taehyun joins him in the dark. 

He hears the distant thump of music from downstairs. He feels the heat of Syd’s breath against his lips, feels the warm sting of the smoke crawling into his lungs. He considers kissing him now, but he fears doing so will startle Syd out of the moment, and something here will be lost.

“Hold it in,” Syd murmurs, still impossibly close.

Taehyun savors the burn in his lungs and throat, holding in the smoke as long as he can. He can feel it pressing against him, like hands pushing against glass walls, and he opens his eyes to study Syd’s face, memorizing every curve and angle and imperfection. The smoke, finding no exit, seems to rise into his brain, coating his think-meat in a cerebral buzz. Taehyun wonders if this what it’s like to be a scoop of melted ice cream.

“You can breathe now,” Syd says with an impressed smile, and the warm hand at the back of Taehyun’s neck slips away.

Taehyun coughs in short sputters as he exhales. He’s reminded of cartoon characters who swallow a stick of dynamite and cough out little cloudy puffs of smoke after the detonation. His mouth is laden with the taste of lemon.

“That’s called shotgunning,” Syd informs him.

“Where’d you learn that?”

“Carrie showed me. I was a lightweight at first, too.” Syd sets the bong on the night table and settles back against the pillows. “How do you feel?”

The shotgun seems to have cleared his mind, slipping him into euphoria. “I think I feel it.” Taehyun closes his eyes and feels the room disappear, like he’s floating in nothingness. He lies on the pillows, fearing he might fall off the earth if he’s not completely horizontal. 

“It’s a good bud,” Syd says with a grin in his voice. He feels very near, and Taehyun imagines they’re floating together. The closest thing he’s ever felt to this high was being doped up on painkillers after having his appendix taken out last year. “Pass me the vodka?” Taehyun is closer to the night table, so he grabs the red Solo cup Syd placed there earlier. Syd takes it from him and gulps down a deep swallow; Taehyun watches the bob of his Adam’s apple.

Taehyun is gripped by a wild, almost dangerous idea: _this is the moment_. It’s brilliant, because if Syd protests, Taehyun can blame it on being high. “Would you do that again?” he asks. He sits up slowly, still feeling like he’s floating in space. The soft comforter beneath his hands keeps him grounded. “The”—he struggles to remember the term Syd used—”shotgun?”

“Sawed-off or double-barrel?” Syd jokes. He hands the cup back to Taehyun. “Sure thing. Swap me out.” Taehyun does, exchanging the Solo cup for the bong. “You’re gonna be so fucking baked,” Syd says with an airy laugh. He flicks on the lighter and reheats the bowl. 

Taehyun stares at the flame, his heart pounding in his throat. He can’t believe he’s about to do this. Syd lifts the bong and inhales the smoke. He moves in close, obliterating Taehyun’s personal space, and exhales a trail of lemon-scented smoke. 

Taehyun receives it, closing the infinitesimal distance between them. He’s not aiming for the smoke but Syd’s lips. His hand finds the side of Syd’s face, aware of the scrub of early stubble against his fingers. Taehyun has never kissed anyone before, but he gives it the old college try, capturing Syd’s mouth underneath his own.

Lemon-pine smoke bursts from Syd’s nose, but he doesn’t stop or pull away. His mouth is hot and alive, his tongue briefly licking at Taehyun’s lips. A noise of desire rumbles in his chest, and he hums against Taehyun’s mouth. 

Taehyun has to break away so he can breathe—they’re just swapping smoke at this point, and there’s a tingle in his chest. Taehyun’s hand rests on the side of Syd’s face, his thumb grazing over Syd’s lips and coming to rest in the crease there. Syd’s mouth twitches into a shy smile which moves Taehyun’s thumb with it. “What was that for?” Syd asks.

“For being you,” Taehyun says, not even caring how corny that sounds. Being high has given him a surge of confidence; he thinks he understands why people smoke pot. “I have a bit of a crush on you.”

Syd’s face is red enough to broadcast that he has never heard these words from another human soul. “Oh dude, you are flying high.” He laughs, but it’s a kind laugh, as though Taehyun is in on the joke rather than being the butt of it. His breath is cool and lemon-sweet. “Me too.” 

It’s unclear whether Syd means he too is baked, or that he also has a crush on Taehyun, but it doesn’t matter, not when Taehyun kisses him again. Even now, with his feelings clearly reciprocated, Syd is too afraid to initiate a kiss himself, and this breaks Taehyun’s heart.

Things heat up rather quickly. Syd sets the bong on the night table so he can move even closer, practically lying on top of Taehyun. And maybe Taehyun drags him there, pulling at the front of his T-shirt to bring him nearer. One of Syd’s hands finds its way underneath Taehyun’s shirt, fingers brushing over his stomach, around his back, along the curve of his spine, and over his hipbones. Taehyun jumps, his skin prickling with gooseflesh at the unfamiliar sensation of being touched like this.

And Syd’s mouth… God, his _mouth_. He tastes like weed and vodka, but underneath it all is a sweetness uniquely his own, something Taehyun will taste every time they kiss. Maybe Syd isn’t a great kisser—Taehyun has no experience to fall back on—but he’s earnest, and that counts for a hell of a lot. 

“Did Carrie teach you how to kiss, too?” Taehyun asks.

“Are you jealous?” Syd says, pressing his hips forward.

Taehyun can feel Syd hard down there against his thigh, and the thought of taking this further makes a full-body chill spread through him. “Yes. I want you all to myself.”

“Fuck, that’s so hot,” Syd says. This time he’s the one to initiate a kiss, his mouth pressing and licking with urgency, like he’ll die if he stops. “I’m all yours.” His hands are everywhere, roaming over Taehyun’s back and around to his chest and stomach. “When did you start—”

Taehyun stops him with a kiss, almost biting Syd’s bottom lip. “Shut up. Just kiss me.”

Syd groans into Taehyun’s mouth, like he finds this incredibly hot. “ _Ich bin so verliebt,_ ” he murmurs, holding Taehyun’s face in his hands.

In Taehyun’s defense, anything Syd whispered this close would have given him a boner. Taehyun squirms underneath Syd, grinding against his thigh. “Are you part German?” Syd often curses at bad drivers in German, and Taehyun remembers the German phrases written in Syd’s journal, but he doesn’t know if this interest in the language comes from a place of heritage. 

“I thought you wanted me to shut up and kiss you,” Syd says, grinning when Taehyun blushes. Taehyun brushes his thumb over Syd’s left earlobe, where a small black earring dangles, then his hands run along Syd’s back and down to his ass. A quick squeeze has Syd laughing against Taehyun’s mouth. “Fuck, you’re a tease.”

The bedroom door clicks open, and Jesse shouts, “Augh! You guys! What the fuck?”

Syd jerks upright, loses his equilibrium and almost falls off the bed. He steadies himself with his hands, his long torso stretched across the mattress. “Dude, knock much?”

“Dude, ask before you fuck in someone else’s bed much?” Jesse snipes back. He’s still wearing the hockey mask, giving the effect of being scolded by a whiny, adolescent Jason Voorhees.

“We weren’t doing that,” Taehyun speaks up, sounding small and unconvincing. It probably doesn’t help that he’s flushed red all over.

“Shut the door, you little asshole,” Syd snaps at Jesse.

Jesse does as he’s told, stepping inside the room before closing the door. He pushes the ridiculous mask off his face, taking a few deep sniffs of the room, then notices the bong on the night table. “You can’t smoke in here!” he practically screeches. “My parents will kill me!”

“I’m sorry,” Taehyun says. “We didn’t know.”

“It’s not even my bong,” Syd tells Jesse. “It’s Derek’s. Besides, what did you expect, hosting a party at your place?”

“I’m gonna be grounded ‘til I’m thirty!” Jesse stomps around the room like some kind of inspector, searching for anything out of place. When he reaches the night table, he shoves the bong into Taehyun’s hands, since he’s the closest. Immediately, Taehyun uses the bong to cover any traces of an erection, though now it looks like a comical exaggeration of a boner jutting from his crotch.

“You used my CD as a cutting board?” Jesse makes a sound of disgust.

“ _Derek_ did, man. I just borrowed the bong.” Syd takes the CD case and pulls out his bag of weed. He brushes the remainder of sticky bud off the jewel case and into the bag. “No bud left behind,” he says, making himself laugh.

Jesse kneels and sniffs the comforter. “Shit! This reeks of pot! Okay, you two have laundry duty.” He tugs at the comforter with brute strength. Syd and Taehyun evacuate the bed, and Jesse begins stripping the mattress. “There’s an all-night laundromat up the street by the 7-11. I hope you brought cash.”

“You’re fucking serious!” Syd laughs. “Can’t we just do it here?”

“Our washer and dryer aren’t big enough. And I have to spend all night fumigating this room with air freshener.”

“Your parents are fucking retarded if they expected a high school party not to involve weed.”

“Either you wash and dry the bedding, or I tell everyone you two were playing grab-ass in here,” Jesse threatens.

Taehyun, fearing what that might mean for Syd, says, “Okay, calm down. We’ll do your laundry.”

Syd ignores this attempt at defusing the tension, instead straightening up and stalking toward Jesse. “You aren’t gonna say shit, or I’ll blow your fucking head off.” Dressed like Woody Harrelson’s character from _Natural Born Killers_ , and standing over six feet tall, Syd couldn’t look more intimidating unless he actually _had_ a gun.

Jesse cringes a little beneath the weight of Syd’s anger, but he has the guts to stand up to him, the way a Chihuahua might face off against a snarling Doberman. “You’re sixteen, and your dad doesn’t live with you. You don’t have a gun.”

“My mom does, dipshit. It’s a Tec-9!”

“Bullshit!” Jesse shouts.

Taehyun tugs at the edge of Syd’s jeans. “Why don’t we just do it? It’s a small price to pay, don’t you think?” He gives Syd a look he hopes conveys that they can continue making out once they get home, if Syd is agreeable to a detente. 

Syd looks at him for a moment before giving in. “Alright! Fuck!” He snatches the bundle of laundry from Jesse’s arms. “But I’m not paying for shit!”

* * *

At 11:18 p.m. on Halloween, Syd and Taehyun are the only ones in the laundromat. They brought along Jesse’s parents’ bottle of laundry detergent and a wicker basket to carry the sheets, pillowcases, and comforters.

“We’re seriously doing this,” Syd says, sitting in one of the plastic chairs against the wall. Taehyun is beside him, just happy to be with Syd in any capacity. The washer with the bedding inside chugs and sloshes, slapping soapy suds against the glass porthole. “So fucking stupid.” He’s still mellow from the pot; the drive to the washateria was harrowing, with Taehyun terrified they were either going to wreck the car or get pulled over. But Syd, it seems, has some experience driving while high. 

“It’s not so bad if you think of it as the price of the kiss,” Taehyun says.

Syd looks at him, blushing and grinning like a dope. “I can’t believe you did that. You’re awesome.”

“Somebody had to,” Taehyun says. “If things went wrong, I would have blamed it on the weed.”

“You wouldn’t have needed to. I wanted to kiss you with that first shotgun, but I lost my nerve.” Syd sighs, dropping his head back against the glass window. “Why am I such a pussy?”

“You’re not.” It would be dishonest to continue this conversation by offering some lame platitudes about taking chances. Taehyun only gained the courage to kiss Syd after reading his journal and getting assurance his overtures wouldn’t be unwanted. He feels like he’s used a cheat sheet to ace a college entrance exam. 

“I can stumble my way into getting laid with Carrie, but when it comes to you, I’m a coward. I care too much about what you think of me.”

“I think you’re great.” Taehyun’s brimming with nerves, convinced he must spill his secret betrayal of confidences. But he doesn’t want to ruin this nice night—even with the laundromat diversion—and throw them into an argument. “You are… _sachawon._ ”

“Is that Korean for ‘dickhead’?”

“It means you’re… eccentric, but that makes you unique. You’re different from everyone else. Four-dimensional.” Taehyun sighs. “I wish you didn’t feel like you can’t show me your true self.”

“My true self?” Syd laughs. “You don’t wanna meet that guy.”

_I already have_ , Taehyun thinks, _or at least seen glimpses of him on the page._ “Are you breaking up with me already?”

“No! No! I just…” Syd buries his head in his hands, trying to get his bearings. “I want to be with you, but I don’t know how. I’ll screw it up and make you hate me. See, you’re giving me that pure, innocent look that says you’d do anything for me. I don’t deserve that kind of love.”

Taehyun blinks, surprised to find tears brimming in his eyes. 

“Ugh, goddamn it!” Syd rises from his chair and moves around the floor. “Look, I made you cry. I’m already making you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you. I feel bad for you. Everyone deserves to be loved.” Perhaps the only way to get through to Syd is by revealing Taehyun knows about the journal entries. If those thoughts are the dark underbelly Syd feels renders him unloveable, what would he think about Taehyun having read them and accepting him? “I know the dark side of you, and I like you anyway. Why don’t you believe me?”

“Because it’s impossible.”

“I read your stupid journal!” Taehyun blurts out before he can think too hard about it. “Is that what you think is so terrible? Because it doesn’t change anything for me. It just made me sad that you hate yourself so much.”

Syd whirls in his black boots, his skin as gray as a December morning. “You what?” he says in a tiny voice, though Taehyun knows Syd heard him. “Oh God! No one was supposed to read that! When did you… How much did you see?”

“The last thing I saw was the letter—”

Syd makes a theatrical squawking noise, like a bird being stepped on.

“I thought it was sweet… and sad.”

Syd brushes an arm across his eyes and turns away. If he blushes any hotter, his skin will burst into flames. “God, you weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Are you sure? Or did you just lose the nerve to give it to me?”

“I couldn’t!” Syd shouts, his voice shaking, angry tears spilling down his cheeks. “The last time I gave someone I liked a note, she read it over the fucking school announcements!” Talking about the incident seems to bring it all back; he’s shaking, his hands gnarled into fists. He paces the floor as he talks. 

“The _only_ bright side was I never signed my name to the note. But everyone in my class was laughing like it was the funniest goddamn thing. It was all anyone was talking about. I knew I couldn’t make it to the end of the day without breaking, so I used ketchup packets as blood and faked a suicide in the cafeteria. I just needed to get sent home without getting in too much trouble. But I got suspended for a few days and made to go to counseling before I could go back to school.”

The empty laundromat seems to exhale. The washer stops spinning, its cycle finished. Syd takes his seat beside Taehyun again, as if needing his proximity. Taehyun places a hand on Syd’s arm. His skin is hot. 

“You thought I would laugh at you if you gave me the note?” But Taehyun knows the answer to that one; Syd spent more time in that letter berating himself for writing it than he did expressing his love. “Is that the kind of person you think I am?”

Syd shrugs. “I guess not. But I didn’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.” Taehyun smiles. “ _Babocheoreom neoman saenggakhae._ ‘Like a fool, I only think of you.’”

* * *

Once Syd and Taehyun have finished the laundry and returned Jesse’s clean, fresh-scented bedding, it’s past midnight. Syd drives them home, and Taehyun feels something between them has shifted, now that the tension of their unspoken mutual attraction is gone. In its place is an intimate, comfortable contentment.

The house is dark when they pull up, and Syd sneaks them inside, careful not to wake his mother. He slips a hand into Taehyun’s own as he guides him through the darkness of the living room. “My room?” Syd whispers, and Taehyun nods.

Syd’s bedroom is large and, save for the walls, somewhat plain, as if he spends so much time downstairs that a fully-decorated bedroom is unnecessary. The walls are painted red and black, with a few posters of rock groups displayed on each one. There is very little furniture, just a bed, a night table, a beanbag chair, and a chest of drawers. Stacked on the night table are two thick hardcovers — _Atlas Shrugged_ , and _Return From the Stars_ —and a purple see-through Game Boy on top of the books. Taehyun has only seconds to process all of this, because his focus remains on Syd’s mouth and hands, both of which caress him with impossible tenderness. 

They end up on the bed together, kissing like they’ll never get a chance to do it again. Taehyun pulls the tie free from Syd’s sandy hair, wanting to get his hands full of it. His hair smells like shampoo and pot. Syd coaxes Taehyun’s mouth open with his tongue, licking his way inside. His hands have found their way underneath Taehyun’s shirt and over his chest, where his heart beats steadily beneath his skin. Then Syd rolls his thumb over Taehyun’s nipple, and he gasps, his hips lurching up, seeking friction against Syd’s thigh between his legs. He’s a sixteen-year-old virgin; his entire body is one big erogenous zone.

Syd gazes down, _admiring_ him. There is a heady sort of power in being desired. A sensuous heat grows in Taehyun’s core. “You look so fucking hot in eyeliner,” Syd murmurs; his breath is sweet and damp, and Taehyun shivers. He bites his lip, aware of the hard ridge against his leg. “You’re the best fucking thing in the—” Syd starts to say, but his words cut off in a sharp gasping groan when Taehyun palms the bulge in Syd’s pants. 

Syd kisses him again, sinking closer until they’re pressed together, and Syd’s thigh fits snugly against Taehyun’s own pressing need. Taehyun grinds into him, and Syd does the same, pushing his hips into Taehyun’s hand. Amidst the rhythmic push of his hips, Taehyun fumbles with Syd’s belt and zipper. Syd pauses, braced on his forearms as he watches Taehyun’s hand disappear down the front of his jeans. 

Taehyun’s fingers push through the wiry scratch of hair, and he barely makes contact with Syd’s cock before his hand is sticky and Syd’s making a choked noise in his throat. It’s the hottest thing Taehyun’s ever heard. He rides Syd’s thigh until he comes too, and lightning flashes behind his eyelids.

Breathless, with Syd lying slumped on top of him, Taehyun asks, “Are you going to write about this in your journal?”

Syd gives him a weak, playful punch in the arm. “Fuck off. Of course I am.”

* * *

Syd’s Journal - October 31st, 1998

_I love Lee Taehyun! He is my soulmate, my love. With him, there is pure happiness. I feel complete. Even in the darkness of this mortal existence, true love and joy still exist. To love and be loved in return is the most fulfilling, beautiful, completing thing._


	4. Son of a Gun (November 1998)

_"We all have a monster within; the difference is in degree, not in kind."_ \- Douglas Preston, _The Monster of Florence_

* * *

_November 7th, 1998_

On Saturday, Derek celebrates his eighteenth birthday at a paintball range in a Denver mini-mall. All of the Rebels are there, even Reb, who ought to seem out of place at a teenager’s birthday party, but it’s not as if any parents are in attendance. According to Derek, his “real” birthday celebration with cake and presents will take place at his parents’ house tonight; the paintball game is meant for him and his friends to have fun. Syd supposes it’s an upgraded version of having your birthday party at a Chuck E. Cheese. 

Derek has chosen this venue for the sake of a class project. “I need to make a movie for my filmmaking class,” he said during Tuesday’s lunch, biting into a barbecue wing. “And I have no fucking idea what to do.” 

“What’s the prompt?” Taehyun asked.

“That dickhead doesn’t give us prompts,” Derek said. The dickhead in question was the school’s video class instructor, Mr. Sanders.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Taehyun said. “You’re not restricted to a certain topic.”

Derek gnawed on another wing. Both sides of his mouth were covered in barbecue sauce. “When you can literally do anything, it stifles you. Limitations are responsible for some of the best art of our time. Look at _Halloween_. Michael Myers’ mask was just a cheap Captain Kirk mask spray-painted white. They didn’t have the budget for special make-up effects or anything.”

“Neither do you,” Syd pointed out.

Derek scowled at him. “Whatever. It’s due on the 14th. I still have time to come up with something.” He sucked the sauce off his thumb. “Oh, you guys need to come to my birthday party. It’s this Saturday at the paintball range.”

“You know,” Syd started, “maybe this paintball thing could be your movie. Make it a short war film or something. And film in black and white so the paint looks like blood.”

Derek grinned. “I like the way you think.”

And that’s how they ended up here, five players per team, taking cover behind inflatable bunkers. The Rebels—sans Derek, since he’s filming with his handheld camera—are on one team, and the other consists of various siblings and friends invited to round out the numbers. Syd, an avid _Doom_ player, feels right at home in a tactical situation with an airsoft rifle in his hands. He shoots from behind cover like a soldier in the trenches. Taehyun covers him as Syd darts from one bunker to the next.

The first game is orchestrated by Derek. He shouts commands across the field, ordering his actors to move in, fall back, or make a dramatic run for one of the teams’ flags. During one of these flag runs, Jesse is captured by “enemy” soldiers and held hostage on the other side of the field. While this move is unorthodox and usually illegal in an actual paintball game, this run is entirely for the sake of the camera. They will play a real game later, untethered by the need to capture video footage. 

As Jesse is held at gunpoint by the leader of the blue team, Derek orders Syd to climb into a nearby sniper’s nest. Syd sneaks to the higher vantage point and aims his rifle, feeling like Charles Whitman taking shots from the university tower. Syd fires. An explosion of red paint blooms on the dark T-shirt of Blue Team’s leader. Jesse wrenches free, and a bloodbath—or paintbath, rather—begins, with both sides firing frantically. Syd jumps back when a paintball splats against the exterior of the tower, though he isn’t hit himself. 

The film culminates with Taehyun and Syd as the last men standing. The field is strewn with bodies covered in red and blue paint. Taehyun reveals he has been shot in the scuffle, as his hand peels away from his abdomen in a mess of blue paint. He draws from the well of movie cliches, rasping, “Tell my family… I love them…” before dying in Syd’s arms.

“Goddamn it, Hudson, don’t you die on me!” Syd wails, equally cliched. He looks at the camera, solemn, and says, “War… is hell.”

Suddenly, an enemy figure appears behind him (it’s Reb, his face just out of frame) and fires a close-range shot into the back of Syd’s head, then a shot at the cameraman. The camera falls, skewed on its side, still filming as Reb’s boots walk past. It’s technically friendly fire, but Reb was the only one tall and intimidating enough to play the surprise assailant. Syd figures once the film is cut together, turned black and white in an editing program, and given the slow-motion and voiceover treatment, Derek should have a decent project for the grading period. 

When the filming has wrapped, everyone takes a break at the snack bar. Syd and Taehyun sit together, sipping Cokes. “I hope you don’t mind losing a day,” Syd says. Weekends are strictly their time together, unimpeded by the presence of the Rebels, and now that the two of them are a couple, alone time is more important than ever. 

“This is fun,” Taehyun says, grinning. “I wouldn’t mind doing things like this more often.”

“With them? Or just me?”

“It doesn’t matter what _we_ do,” Taehyun says, and Syd feels his heart melt. “But with them… I would prefer this to those awful movies.”

“I think we just made a pretty awful movie,” Syd says. He wanted to make the film a period piece, playing the role of a German soldier (putting his German 101 language class to good use), but Derek overruled him, claiming Taehyun’s presence on either side would make the film “historically inaccurate.” 

“Sure,” Taehyun agrees, “but it was fun.”

Syd is seized by the urge to kiss him. It’s something he can barely control now that he knows Taehyun is cool with it, but he hates that it’s something they have to hide. Even Syd’s mother doesn’t know about them yet; at least, Syd hasn’t told her. He doesn’t put it past her to know using some parental witchcraft, especially since she was perceptive enough to pick up on his crush in the first place. 

“You have a holiday coming up, right?” Taehyun asks.

“Yeah, my dad’s coming for Thanksgiving,” Syd says with a sigh. “That’s going to be a disaster. He’s bringing his trophy wife and his shit-head trophy son.” 

Every other year, Syd’s father makes the pilgrimage to Denver for a sit-down Thanksgiving with the family. Last year, Syd and Misty road-tripped to Salt Lake City to spend the holiday with his grandparents. This year, he will be subjected to the presence of Brooks, his stepbrother and replacement in his father’s eyes. Of course his dad would trade in the weird loner teen for an upgraded model: the Jock-O-Tron 5000, complete with steroids and a smug sense of superiority. Brains not included.

“You’re kind of lucky, if you think about it,” Taehyun says. “Your family comes to visit you for the holidays.”

“I know what you’re getting at, and in any other situation you’d be right. But my dad’s new family is terrible. My ‘stepmom’”—he nearly gags on the word—”is a gold-digging slut who stole my dad away from my mom. And my ‘stepbrother’ is a douchebag jock who thinks everything I like is ‘retarded’ and ‘gay.’”

“All families are unhappy in their own way,” Taehyun says, paraphrasing the famous Tolstoy line.

“No offense, but I think you’re biased because you miss your family. I’d rather spend Thanksgiving with you and my mom, without my stupid dad bringing his fake new family to rub in our faces.”

“On the bright side, your _Chuseok_ lasts only one day.”

Syd supposes that could be considered a bright side, that he’ll only have to deal with his stepfamily for twenty-four hours (probably less, depending on how quickly things get heated). “And you’ll have an amusing story to tell your folks back home.”

* * *

_November 27th, 1998_

Syd wakes up sore and well-rested, albeit alone in his own bed. Taehyun spent the night with him, both of them kissing and fondling each other underneath their clothes before falling asleep. This has become somewhat of a nightly routine for them, and if Misty is aware of it, she’s remained quiet on the matter. Syd glances at the clock; it’s half-past noon, and delicious smells waft in from the kitchen.

He joins Taehyun and Misty five minutes later. Taehyun’s helping Misty bake and prepare the last remaining items; the three of them spent last night preparing a few dishes ahead of time—Misty’s famous dressing potatoes and the cranberry-apple pie, notably. Judging by the smell, the potato dressing is currently baking in the oven. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Misty teases him. “About time you joined us.”

“I had a busy night,” Syd says, catching Taehyun’s eye. Taehyun blushes and turns away. He’s looking particularly delectable in a huge white sweatshirt and holey, light jeans.

“That didn’t stop Taehyun from rising bright and early to help me with the cooking,” Misty says. “I’m glad you’re both up. I don’t want to give the safe sex talk twice.”

Syd blanches, going apoplectic. “What are you talking about?”

Misty sighs, as though Syd’s routine of playing dumb insults her intelligence. “I know you two are”—she searches for a non-graphic word—” _experimenting_ with each other.”

“To the lab, Igor!” Syd says to Taehyun, affecting a cartoonish German accent. “We have very important work to be done!”

“It’s pronounced ‘eye-gor,’” Taehyun volleys back. To his credit, he knows how to take a bit and run with it.

“But they told me it was ‘ee-gor’!”

“Well, they were wrong then, weren’t they?”

Misty puts her hands on her hips. “Are you guys doing a bit? Come on, just let me check the safe sex talk off my list, please.”

Syd drops the silly accent. “You gave me the sex talk when I was thirteen. And I’m not stupid; I know to use condoms and all that stuff. Every health class I’ve ever had brings it up and then spends the rest of the hour showing us horrible photos of STDs.”

Misty relaxes a little. “Oh, well, Taehyun, are you—”

Mercifully, Taehyun cuts her off. “My parents gave me this talk before I came to America. I think they assumed I would be in great sexual demand here.”

“Were they wrong?” Syd asks, spreading his hands. Taehyun gives him a nonplussed albeit amused look that accentuates his dimples. 

“I just want you both to know you can come to me with any questions you have, okay?” Misty says. “Sex is natural and nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Syd smirks. “She said, blushing.”

“Are all mothers so… permissive here?” Taehyun wonders.

“No, I know I’m in the minority on this. But it would be pointless and counterproductive for me to forbid you from doing it,” Misty explains to both of them. “My parents tried that with me, and, well, it didn’t work.”

“Mom,” Syd groans. He figured out pretty early that his mother conceived him quite young, almost as if she’d been just out of high school. But he doesn’t want to hear about his mom’s sexual escapades any more than she wants to hear about his own. 

“I’m just saying, if you’re going to do it, be safe about it. Please. For your own sakes.”

“Got it. Can we please talk about something else? Like how you figured it out?”

“Why does every teenager think their parents are stupid?” Misty asks, rhetorically. “I’m your mom. I know things about you that you probably don’t even know yet.”

“Then tell me, oh wise and powerful Cleo, how you knew.”

The timer beeps, and Taehyun dutifully retrieves the baking dish from the oven. He looks ridiculously domestic wearing Misty’s colorful oven mitts, and Syd gets a fizzy feeling in his chest that must be affection.

“You haven’t been slouching as much,” Misty tells Syd. “Your mood is better, you’re very agreeable, you two do practically everything together, and the way you both look at each other… Come on, Syd, it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”

“Fine. It’s not like I’ve been trying to hide it or anything,” Syd grumbles. “You think Dad will notice?”

“Unless you and Taehyun kiss in front of him? Not a chance. Now help me with the sweet potatoes.”

Every dish Misty makes on Thanksgiving is a tried-and-true recipe from someone in the family, usually her mother or grandmother. There’s the potato dressing—which is really just mashed potatoes dressed up for a fancy dinner—the green bean casserole, the ultimate sweet potato casserole, and the pie, which combines cranberries and apples in a buttery, homemade crust. The turkey itself is almost an afterthought, thrown into the oven with store-bought box stuffing crammed inside, its leftovers slated for a dishful of turkey tetrazzini in the days to follow. 

“Mom, you really missed your calling as a baker,” Syd says while mashing up the sweet potatoes.

“You tell me that every year,” Misty says.

“Yeah, well, maybe you should listen.”

“Maybe you should hush,” she says, kindly. “There is so much financial red tape and sacrifice in starting your own business. I’ve thought about it a lot, but without someone else to pick up the slack, it’s just not in the cards for me right now.”

“I could get a job,” Syd says.

“You have college to think about.”

“Community college,” he corrects. The lack of financial ruin as opposed to traditional university appeals to him. “And I could do both.”

“You’re my son. I’m not going to put that burden on you. You have a life too, y’know.”

In conversations like these, Syd wonders if his mother is happy. Did her life turn out the way she planned? Probably not, considering she’s raising a teenager by herself. Was teaching something she fell into out of necessity, or did her yearning to have more children manifest itself in a job where she could be around them? 

“Will you be okay?” Syd asks. “Y’know, seeing Dad again?”

“I can handle your father just fine. It’s that homewrecking bitch I can’t stand.”

Taehyun gasps, perhaps shocked at hearing a mother use such harsh language in front of her kids. Syd chuckles at his reaction. 

“And her meathead son is the worst,” Syd says. “You’re not gonna make it into the NFL, Brooks. Read a book.”

Misty laughs despite herself. “Try to be civil, okay?”

“I can’t promise anything.”

Syd’s father Wade, his new wife Susan, and his stepson Brooks arrive just after one p.m. Syd decides he’ll take one for the team where his mom is concerned; seeing the whole family at once like this might upset her. 

“Who is this handsome young man?” Wade says when Syd opens the door.

“Hi, Dad.”

Wade claps a friendly hand on Syd’s shoulder, and he has to stand on his tiptoes to do it. “You get taller every year, don’t you?”

“Maybe I’ll get drafted to the Nuggets,” Syd says, slouching, suddenly self-conscious.

From behind his parents, Brooks scoffs a loud laugh. “Yeah, right, dork.”

“Hello to you, too, Brooks.”

“It’s nice to see you again, Syd,” Susan says, wearing a look of awkward politeness. For a moment, Syd pities her, then pity is swallowed by anger at her, for encouraging Wade to leave his family instead of breaking off the affair.

“Susan.”

The three of them step inside, and Syd’s role as family ambassador is over as quickly as it began. Wade and Susan are drawn to Misty, engaging her in conversation about the house, the weather, whatever the hell adults talk about when the love has gone out of a marriage. Syd slinks over to Taehyun, who’s in the kitchen gathering dishes. 

“Let me help you with that. Anything for a moment’s peace.”

Syd helps him locate the serving platters and utensils. As they begin to set the table, Brooks says, “I didn’t know you guys were rich enough for hired help.”

Syd scowls. It’s a dig at his family and Taehyun, and he won’t stand for it. “Shut up. This is Taehyun. He’s an exchange student from South Korea.”

Taehyun smiles at Brooks. “Nice to meet you.” He is polite and sweet and cordial, demonstrating a dangerous cultural ignorance where Brooks and his ilk are concerned.

“’Sup. I’m Brooks. Do you actually speak English, or do you only know a few key phrases to get by?”

Syd almost punches Brooks and forfeits the familial detente before Thanksgiving has even begun, but Taehyun can handle himself. “I speak English. I currently have an A-plus in my English class.”

“Of course you do,” Brooks sneers.

“At least he actually _earns_ his As,” Syd says.

“You calling me stupid?”

“I’m calling into question the integrity of an education system where athletes are given passing grades just so they can play sports,” Syd says. “And, yes, I’m calling you stupid.”

Brooks’ ears go red. “If my parents weren’t here, I’d beat your face in.”

“I’m sure you would. Did you know there’s a legal loophole that lets me bring an adult—which is eighteen, by the way, so, high school senior—to a gun show to buy a gun for me? A gun which I would then use to shoot you in your sleep?” Syd says. “Well, there’s no loophole for the last part. I’d still go to prison. But it’d be worth it. So watch your back.”

Brooks makes a face. “God, you’re such a freak.” He leaves them alone and heads out the back door, where he will likely light a cigarette from the pocket of his letter jacket. 

Taehyun studies Syd’s face. “It’s strange. I dislike when you threaten people, but you are incredibly attractive when you do it.”

Syd grins. “I’ll made idle threats all day long for you, baby.”

Taehyun’s face does that adorable judgey-scrunchy thing. “I’d rather you didn’t.” He returns to the kitchen for another armful of dishes.

“You know you love it!” Syd calls after him.

Five minutes later, everyone is seated at the table. Misty, Syd, and Taehyun are gathered on one side, with Wade, Susan, and Brooks on the other. Syd imagines them as army generals from opposing sides sitting down to sign some kind of peace accords. 

Wade makes them all say grace—he was always the religiously-centered one in the family—then they fill their plates. The first few minutes are quiet. Wade munches on carved turkey. Susan chews green beans. Brooks drinks a Mountain Dew. Then Susan breaks the ice, asking Taehyun questions about how he likes America and what life is like in South Korea. Taehyun is happy to talk, and Syd’s glad to hear him; the more Taehyun talks, the less anyone else says. And Brooks is less likely to make an insulting comment in front of his parents. 

“Do you think you’ll stay here?” Susan asks after Taehyun has explained his educational goals. 

Taehyun looks at his plate, pensive. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Sure you can, dude. There’s tons of illegals here,” Brooks offers, and Syd has no idea if that’s a dig at Taehyun.

“That’s not really…” Taehyun shakes his head and starts over. “I would want to become a citizen.”

“It’s not too hard,” Wade assures him. “You just take a test, sign a few papers.”

“South Korea does not recognize dual citizenship,” Taehyun says, looking morose. “To make a choice feels like a betrayal. And I cannot abandon my South Korean citizenship until I complete my military service.”

“Hold up, what?” Syd asks through a mouthful of food. “Military service?”

Taehyun’s eyes are wide with alarm, like he can’t believe they haven’t talked about this yet. “Every Korean male eighteen and older must serve about two years in the military.”

Brooks says, “Jeez. Say what you want about the US, but at least we got rid of the draft in the ‘70s.”

Syd feels the pinpricks of fear in his gut, the beginnings of panic rising up from the deep. Two years? Syd can’t imagine being away from Taehyun for two weeks, let alone _years_. And Taehyun turns seventeen in April, which will begin a ticking clock until he hits eighteen and returns to South Korea and disappears from Syd’s life for two entire years, if Taehyun ever returns at all. What the motherfucking hell is he supposed to do now?

“I—I have to shit,” Syd announces before bolting from the table. It’s the only thing he can think of that will prevent anyone from stopping him.

“Syd,” Misty groans, but she lets him go.

He shuts himself in his bedroom, allowing the world to spin beneath him as panic closes in. Two years. _Two years._ What the fuck?! The only person in the world who makes the insanity in Syd’s brain actually stop, the only person who makes his entire existence worthwhile, can just… leave? 

A line from _Romeo and Juliet_ floats into Syd’s mind: _Take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of Heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night, and pay no worship to the garish sun._

They certainly _feel_ like star-crossed lovers, brought together by fate and ripped apart by societal prejudices and Taehyun’s own duty to his country. Or maybe it’s all a cosmic joke on Syd himself. Of course he couldn’t be allowed to have a best friend and a lover wrapped into one. There would have to be consequences, a sour caveat to justify the universe’s gift in the first place.

And the length of Taehyun’s absence is only the beginning. What if he returns to his homeland and finds someone infinitely better than Syd? Someone who speaks fluent Korean, someone who knows the ins and outs of Taehyun’s culture, rather than being an outsider to it. Someone Taehyun’s parents will approve of—a woman, probably. His parents will arrange a date and eventually a wedding with some beautiful, cultured woman, and in the afterglow of their wedding night he will regale her with stories of his time in the States, laughing about the few short months when he dated a stupid, gangly loser who loved him too much to let go. 

Maybe Taehyun will do a quick search for Syd on the internet and find an obituary dated a few scant months after Taehyun’s departure from America. He will grieve for a short while, but the etchings Syd made in his heart will already be filled in and replaced by another.

The bedroom door opens, and Syd jumps. Taehyun offers a friendly smile. “You okay?”

“That’s not a question anyone asks when the other person is doing great.”

Taehyun’s smile gains a sense of grimness. “Sorry. I sort of… dropped a bomb on you. It’s not a real Thanksgiving until somebody storms out, right?”

Syd hears himself laugh. Funny how Taehyun remembers he said that. “And we’re not even done with dinner yet.”

Taehyun steps inside and approaches him. “I have until I’m twenty-eight to enlist, you know. We still have lots of time together.”

“Can’t you be a conscientious objector?”

“I think they put you in prison for that.”

“Jesus.” Syd drops onto the bed, wondering when his life became so goddamn complicated.

“Ten years is a long time.” Taehyun sits beside him to offer the comfort of his presence. “I could become a doctor in eight. Ten years ago, you were six years old. Think about how much has happened in your life since then.”

“Time speeds up each year. Or at least it seems like it does.”

“So that should make the two years I’m away feel shorter.”

“Don’t be Mr. Silver Lining right now,” Syd says. “I’m quite used to feeling miserable.”

“And still I adore you.” Taehyun throws his arms around Syd’s neck and kisses the corner of his mouth. Syd fights a smile. “Two years is not so bad, when we can have the rest of our lives together.”

“What if you meet someone better while you’re over there? Or just forget about what we have and how good it is?”

“Change is possible,” Taehyun concedes. “But you could change too. Your life during those two years will be much more interesting than mine. The chance of you meeting someone new and exciting exists, too.”

“It took me sixteen years to meet you,” Syd points out.

“And you survived being alone that long.”

He’s not wrong, and being alone might be more tolerable when Syd has someone worth waiting for. “I wish you would’ve told me sooner.”

“So you could get a head-start on worrying?” Taehyun grins when Syd frowns at him; his smile is heartbreakingly beautiful, and it’s hard to stay angry or even mildly upset in the face of it. “You didn’t even think you’d live to see twenty-eight, Mr. Downward Spiral.”

“It’s not off the table.” Syd is aware of how strange it sounds to defend his own suicidal tendencies. “But… you make it all go away.” If Taehyun can reference Nine Inch Nails in casual conversation, so can Syd. “Life is good when you’re with me.”

Brooks barges into the room; Taehyun must have left the door open a bit. “Are you guys homos?” Brooks asks, sounding smug and amused, and it’s hard to deny when Taehyun’s got his arms wrapped around Syd’s neck, especially if Brooks was eavesdropping on their conversation. 

Syd rolls his eyes. If their relationship had been discovered at school, there would be a quick distillation of suicide methods flickering through his mind, but this is just Brooks, the asshole stepbrother he sees once every two years who doesn’t even live in the same state. Who gives a shit what he thinks? “ _Zieh Leine, scheissekopf_!”

“Okay, Hitler,” Brooks says, oblivious to the fact that Syd just called him a shithead. “Is that why you freaked out a minute ago? ‘Cause your _boyfriend_ has to go away for two years?”

Taehyun seems to sense the tension here and withdraws his arms from Syd’s person, though he doesn’t scoot away or put distance between them. 

“I get it, Brooks,” Syd says. “You’re jealous because you’re going to die alone. Maybe you fuck a lot of cheerleaders, but they don’t really care about you. You’ve hedged your entire future on a football scholarship, because you literally have nothing else going for you. Outside of your ability to throw a ball, you have no substance. And that’ll carry you just fine through high school and college, but after that, you’re a nobody.”

Brooks’ entire face is red. “Fuck you, man!” He rushes at Syd, his fist cocked and ready. Taehyun pulls Syd away from the arc of the swing, but Brooks doesn’t let up. “You’re such an asshole!” He snatches the front of Syd’s T-shirt and slams him against the wall. Syd feels the air rush out of him.

“Stop it!” Taehyun tries to intervene, pushing at Brooks’ muscled shoulder, but Brooks doesn’t budge. “This is ridiculous, both of you.”

“I wasn’t kidding about the gun,” Syd tells Brooks, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice. 

“I’m not scared of you, dickhead. I’ve got nothing to lose, unlike you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Let go of him, please,” Taehyun pleads. Brooks gives Syd a half-hearted shove and releases him. No one is more surprised than Syd; Taehyun’s bewitching sweetness must work on straight guys too. “What do you mean, nothing to lose? Is everything okay?”

Taehyun seems to actually care, and this geniune concern softens Brooks’ angry expression. “No, dude, everything sucks,” Brooks says to him, ignoring Syd. 

“You’re the all-American football star Dad always wanted.” Syd blurts out. “What could _possibly_ suck for you?”

Taehyun places his hands on Syd’s chest, as if holding him at bay. “Stop. You’re just upsetting him more.”

_Maybe he deserves it_ , Syd wants to say, but he knows Taehyun is right, and that he’s being somewhat of a bully. The rush of self-righteousness is intoxicating, but dangerous. Syd takes a step back, holding up his hands in a show of surrender. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry.”

This apology dissolves most of the tension in the room, and Brooks lowers himself into the nearby beanbag chair with an unusual amount of delicacy for a jock. “Me too,” he says, his face a twisted mask of complex emotions. “I just hate being here.”

Syd takes offense to this, but he tries to keep any vitriol out of his response. “I get that a social hierarchy exists in school, and I’m the sort of guy you have to call a faggot and stuff into a locker to look cool for your friends, but can’t you just be civil to me once every two years? We share a dad! You’d think that would give us something in common.”

“He’s your dad, not mine,” Brooks says. “I spent most of my life without a dad, and it sucked. I was so jealous of everyone else for having one. Then my mom finally remarries, and I thought, ‘thank God, finally,’ but all Dad ever talks about is you. Whenever I bring home a report card, it’s never good enough. ‘You know, Syd was in advanced classes when he was just eight years old!’ ‘You should take a computer class! Syd knows how to make his own _Doom_ levels!’ ‘Syd’s going to college for computer programming!’ Even when we’re supposed to be doing something together, he always finds a way to bring it back to you. ‘Syd and I used to go fishing back in Colorado!’ ‘I let Syd shoot my rifle at the range.’ He doesn’t give a shit about me, dude.”

Syd is almost bowled over by how much he likes and hates his father in this moment, how much he suddenly pities Brooks, and how he must reevaluate himself. “In the end, he chose you over me.”

“He chose my mom,” Brooks insists. “I was just an afterthought.”

Syd sighs. “Look, I’m sorry for giving you such a hard time. I didn’t know you had thoughts and feelings and weren’t just created in a lab for the specific purpose of annoying me. Can we start over and be friends?” Extending the proverbial olive branch is a moment of weakness for Syd, but he figures Brooks has showcased enough weakness here himself, and Syd knows that’s no easy feat. “Let’s at least finish dinner. My mom’s an awesome cook.”

The three of them return to the dining room, where the parents have begun to argue with each other. “All I’m saying is this is a difficult time for kids Syd’s age,” Susan tells Misty. “The lack of a father figure in the household can have a profound effect on a teenage boy.” 

Susan is a psychiatrist and thus tries to shoehorn in a psychoanalysis of Syd every Thanksgiving. Last time, Susan warned Misty to keep an eye out for the homicidal triad: bedwetting, setting fires, and cruelty to animals.

“I’m aware, Susan,” Misty says through a forced smile; Syd’s amazed she's had the restraint not to blame that lack of a father figure on Susan and Wade’s affair. “But Syd and Taehyun are both great at communicating with me. I think I know a lot about what’s going on in their lives, and they’re comfortable talking to me about any problems.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Susan says, sounding the opposite of glad. “But teenagers are capable of hiding so many secrets. A few months ago, a fifteen-year-old in Oregon shot and killed his parents before killing two students at his school and wounding twenty-five others. You think his parents saw that coming?”

Syd retrieves his plate and utensils from the table where he abandoned them. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he tells her. “You’ve never been on my list of people to kill.”

Susan blanches. “You have a list?”

“You _don’t_?” He laughs at her flabbergasted reaction. “We’re gonna eat downstairs, if that’s okay,” Syd says to his mother.

“You’re getting along?” Wade says, pleased. He shares a look with Susan. “See, I told you they’d be fine.”

Misty gives Syd a look that seems to say ‘take me with you,’ but she allows him, Brooks, and Taehyun to bring their food to the basement.

“Oof,” Syd says while they’re heading down the stairs. “I would _not_ wanna be at that table.”

“My mom thinks every teenager is a budding Jack the Ripper,” Brooks laments. “We’re all nuts. That’s why you can’t start medicating our brains until we’re eighteen.”

“I think I’m well-adjusted,” Taehyun says with slight offense.

“You’re an outlier,” Syd says, and if he had a hand free he would ruffle Taehyun’s hair. 

They spend the afternoon on the couch, eating and playing video games, and occasionally heading back upstairs for more food and sodas. Even Arlene emerges from her hiding spot to observe the three of them. It’s weird for Syd to feel so comfortable around someone like Brooks, the archetype of every school bully Syd’s ever had, but Brooks’ moment of vulnerability made him somewhat sympathetic.

Every time Syd leaves, he catches wind of a new, resentment-riddled argument amongst the parents. Wade accuses Misty of being too liberal in her parenting (”You let him smoke pot? That basement smells like my college dorm!”), Susan diagnoses Syd with some kind of disorder, and Misty makes veiled, passive-aggressive jabs at Wade’s infidelity. No wonder Brooks is so screwed up. It’s a shitshow, and Syd wishes his mother were the type of person to stab a fork in someone’s face. 

“It sucks up there,” Syd says, returning from the kitchen for a third time. “You’re okay, Brooks, but if I see a single tear in my mom’s eyes, I’m kicking the shit out of your parents.”

“Can I at least watch?” Brooks says. He’s playing _Twisted Metal_ with Taehyun. Having someone else down here is strange as well; Syd’s never really thought to invite any of the Rebels over, too concerned about infringing on Taehyun’s space. 

Syd takes his spot beside Taehyun. With three people on the couch, they’re all almost uncomfortably close. Taehyun steals a forkful of sweet potatoes from Syd’s plate; Syd doesn’t mind, just leans into him a little.

“So you guys are, like, really gay? Like, together?” Brooks asks.

Syd doesn’t see the harm in confirming that. “Tell my dad on your way home. Maybe it’ll score you a couple points.”

Brooks considers this. “Nah, I don’t wanna sell you out. You guys are cool.”

“A jock thinks I’m cool?” Syd grins. “Now there’s one for the history books. Should we take a photo of us shaking hands, like Elvis and Nixon?”

“I take it back. Taehyun’s cool. You’re still a dweeb,” Brooks says, but there’s no heat to it.

Tensions seem to have cooled by the time the three of them go upstairs again for pie. No one at the table is speaking to each other, but at least there’s no arguing. Wade breaks the silence. “Why don’t you boys join us for dessert? We barely got to see you.”

The three exchange glances before deciding the path of least resistance is probably the way to go. They each serve themselves a slice of cranberry-apple pie and a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top before taking their empty seats at the table. 

“You sounded like you were having fun down there,” Wade says, attempting to get them to open up. It seems the adults can’t talk without the conversation devolving into bitterness, so the teenagers have been enlisted instead.

Syd bites back a sarcastic reply— _I didn’t know you could hear us over all your yelling_. “Just playing video games.”

“I think it’s great that you and Brooks are finally getting along,” Susan says, trepidatious.

“Almost like we have something in common,” Syd says with a smirk. “You know Brooks is a bookworm? He’s the only person I know who reads Hemingway and James Joyce for fun.” Brooks revealed this while they were downstairs to answer the question of what he actually enjoyed besides football. Syd’s taste in literature skews more toward authors like Stephen King and Clive Barker, but he can appreciate a fellow reader, and this revelation gives Brooks a chance to connect with Wade. 

“You never told me that,” Wade says, eyeing Brooks with curiosity. “When did this start?”

“I’ve been reading a lot since seventh grade. You guys just… never asked.” Eventually he is goaded into explaining some of his favorite novels: _The Great Gatsby_ , _Moby Dick_ , and _Of Mice and Men_. His taste skews heavily toward classic American literature that schools across the country force kids to read, but Brooks actually seems to enjoy them. 

He takes great pleasure in explaining how _The Great Gatsby_ received a lot of criticism when it was first published, and how most of that criticism completely missed the point of the book. “Yeah, he focused on the upper class, but that was the point. Even when people have money and power, they can still be miserable and empty emotionally. Their lives are just as messed up as anyone else’s, sometimes more, because of the lies they tell to get there.”

Wade suggests other novels based on Brooks’ taste, and Syd’s just glad they’re all having a civil, polite dinner together. 

Later, when the dishes are cleared, Syd gets his father alone. “Do you really gloat about me to Brooks?”

“I wouldn’t call it gloating,” Wade says, defensive. “I like to keep him abreast of what you’re doing.”

“Well, don’t. Because it just makes him feel like he’s never going to be good enough.”

“Nothing wrong with a little healthy competition.”

“Except it’s not healthy,” Syd says, growing furious. “Brooks is sensitive, and maybe he’s too afraid to say this, but I’m not. Stop comparing him to me. He’s a totally different person who likes sports and classic American lit. Take an interest in what he likes instead of trying to make him into a clone of me. Anyway, if I’m such a great kid, why’d you leave?”

Wade’s calm expression falls. “It’s complicated.”

“Right, sure. I don’t know why I expected a real answer to that. Just… be a real father to Brooks. He was so desperate for someone to listen to him that he opened up to me and Taehyun, a kid he doesn’t even know. Does Susan spend all her time psychoanalyzing me, or does she ever think about Brooks?”

Wade places a hand on Syd’s shoulder. Syd, to his credit, doesn’t shrug it off. “Syd, I know you’re confused and hurting. I wish I could make it better for you. But you don’t know everything. Brooks has his own problems, and while some of them are my fault, not all of them are. He sold you a story that you would be sympathetic to, but, like most stories, the ugly truths are cut out.”

“I never said he was a saint.” Syd remembers now why he only writes a few paragraphs of catch-up exposition in his Father’s Day and Christmas cards, instead of actually speaking with his father. “Just let him be himself and stop comparing him to me.” 

Syd moves to leave, then stops so he can say more. “And by the way? All of us are made of ugly truths. The only reason anyone likes us is because we act like sanitized, watered-down versions of ourselves.”

He thinks that’s a halfway decent exit line.

Before Brooks leaves, Syd slips him a piece of paper with his email address and AIM username written on it. 

By dark, the house is back to normal, with only Misty, Syd, and Taehyun left ruminating at the dinner table. Arlene is curled up on one of the empty chairs, soothed by their familiar voices. “That wasn’t so bad,” Syd says, working on a second piece of pie.

Misty lets out a groan of emotional exhaustion. “Speak for yourself. I hate that smug, pill-pushing witch. She thinks you should start taking Luvox because you’re ‘depressed’ and ‘have anger issues.’ I’m just going to stop telling your father anything, because it always ends up getting back to her.”

“I feel sorry for Brooks,” Syd says, and tells her about their conversations.

Misty looks like she’s about to cry—an uncomfortable state in which to see your mother. She places a hand on Syd’s cheek. “Am I a good mom? Be honest.”

Syd says yes immediately, because it’s the truth. “Did Dad say you weren’t?”

“Not in so many words.” Her hand lingers on his face for a moment before dropping away. Almost immediately, he misses her warmth. “Taehyun, you get a say too. Have I been a good host mom?”

Taehyun blinks, looking put on the spot. He probably just wanted to sit here and eat his pie, not be dragged into this family’s psychodrama. “Yes, of course.”

“Really? You’re not just saying that to be polite?” Misty sniffles.

“Yes!” Taehyun hops up from his seat and hugs her. “You are a good mom! You’ve been so nice to me. My own mother would not let me date a guy like Syd.”

“’Cause I’m a bad influence,” Syd says, only half-joking.

Misty wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to get so upset. It’s just hard sometimes.”

“If Dad really thought you were a bad mom, he would have offered to take me,” Syd says.

Misty starts to cry again, and Taehyun gives her another hug. “Syd, come hug your mom,” he orders, and Syd does. 

“He wanted to take you back to Kansas City with him and Brooks and Susan,” Misty says through short, stabbing sobs. “I said absolutely not. I’m sorry I didn’t let you answer for yourself, but—”

“I would have said no. I’m not leaving.”

She hugs them closer. “Thank God.”

“He really asked to take Syd away?” Taehyun says.

“He said Syd might be happier with a ‘stable family unit’ and a stepbrother whose popularity he could use as leverage to make new friends,” Misty explains. “I told him you’re doing just fine here, honey, and that you have a lot of friends and don’t want to leave them.”

“How did you not just jam a fork right into his eyes?” Syd asks with a chuckle.

“Oh, I’ve gotten used to him. It’s Susan I wanted to rip limb from limb.”

Syd looks at Taehyun. “Ah, so that’s where I get it.” He says to his mother, “According to Brooks, it sucks in that house, so thanks. I dodged a bullet.”

During the remainder of the evening, they snack on leftovers and crowd together on the living room couch to watch _Planes, Trains, and Automobiles_. It’s one of Syd’s favorite movies, and Taehyun seems to get a laugh or ten out of it too. Arlene cuddles in Syd’s lap, then moves to Taehyun when she wants more attention. 

Seeing his mother cry has shaken Syd a bit. Whatever Wade and Susan said to her today must have sneaked through some crack in her defenses. And Syd can’t help but feel guilty himself, because maybe a defect in his personality or character has reflected poorly on Misty. As much as he tries to brush it off—judging from Brooks, Wade and Susan aren’t Parents of the Year—his mother’s inner pain still hurts him too. 

Ruminating over this and Taehyun’s impending military enlistment, Syd falls into somewhat of a gloom. Later, he approaches Misty’s bedroom door, peering through the opening to see if she’s awake. The bedside lamp is on, and Misty’s in bed reading a John Grisham novel. Arlene is curled at her feet. Misty looks up, sensing Syd’s presence through some motherly sixth sense. “Syd? Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Can I talk to you?”

“Of course!” Misty drops the book on her night table and pats the empty space beside her. Arlene raises her head, as if to discern what’s going on, then lowers it when she sees no threat. “What’s wrong, honey?” Misty asks him, laying a hand on his arm when Syd sits on the bed. 

The entire room feels too big for just Misty, and the absence of his father makes Syd feel sad and guilty and angry. He’s always viewed her as an impossibly strong woman, only annoyed by the notion that she needs a man, rather than hurt by it. Her willingness to raise him alone has always seemed like a strength instead of a weakness. But he wonders if she gets lonely, if he’s a burden on her happiness.

“Don’t listen to Dad,” Syd says. “You’re a good mom. He’s just jealous, I guess, ‘cause he made the wrong choice. That’s why he makes Brooks feel like crap by comparing him to me. Maybe he compares Susan to you, too, and that’s why she’s such a bitch.”

Misty smiles and brushes some of Syd’s hair out of his face. “I don’t know if it’s that simple, but thank you.”

“I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like a bad mother. Maybe it’s just me who’s bad.”

Misty rises up to her knees so she can hug him. Syd closes his eyes, feeling pathetic and rejuvenated in his mother’s arms. “Oh, Syd, honey, no. You’re not bad, okay? I need you to know that. You’re just going through a tough time, being a teenager. But you’re doing great. I’ve watched you come out of your shell the last few months, and I’m _so_ proud of you.”

Syd thinks the fact that he came here to comfort his mother but ended up making her comfort him speaks to his own innate awfulness, but mentioning this will only make Misty feel worse. She holds him tighter, as if aware how much he hates eye-contact during conversations like this. “I know you don’t like to ask for help, and that you have trouble talking about how you feel,” she continues. “But don’t be afraid to tell me anything. No matter what. That’s why I’m here.”

“I know.” Syd does know, but it’s nice to hear every once in a while. “Thanks.”

* * *

By midnight, Syd and Taehyun are in bed, kissing in the dark. Taehyun’s mouth is minty fresh, and Syd takes his time winding him up, licking inside his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip, kissing the dimples that appear when he smiles. 

“You are adorable,” Syd murmurs before recapturing Taehyun’s lips. “I love you so much.” He only says it during moments like this when they’re incredibly close and their cocks are unoccupied. Syd never thinks to say he loves Taehyun during sex, or as a way to encourage an orgasm, because it’s not about getting off. Syd loves Taehyun most in the moments where all he can think about is how lucky he is to have him. 

“I love you too,” Taehyun says, shy and sweet, like this is the first time he’s said it. His hand brushes through Syd’s hair, curling at the back of his neck. They’re pressed together in all the tenderest places: chests, stomachs, groins, thighs. Both of them are hard, and neither is trying to hide it. Taehyun skims a hand over Syd’s thigh, and his fingers come to rest against the ridge between his legs. “I want…” Taehyun seems to search for the proper word or phrase, but comes up empty. “Something.”

Syd chuckles. Taehyun might be fluent in English on the streets, but definitely not in the sheets. He can’t blame him; it’s probably impossible to learn sex terminology from sitcoms, which can’t use the terms ‘blow job’ or ‘anal sex.’ 

“I’ll give you something,” Syd promises. He’s been thinking about sucking Taehyun’s dick since August. Time to give it a shot. His hands push Taehyun’s pajamas down his thighs. Taehyun gasps, probably at the bite of cold air against his skin, and Syd sinks to his knees. His hands slide over Taehyun’s legs, hoisting them over his shoulders. Taehyun makes a quiet sound of fear and anticipation. 

Syd swallows as much of him as he can (which isn’t much, but it’s enough). Taehyun moans, squirming over the bed, his legs briefly sliding across Syd’s shoulders. Syd hums around him, smiling when Taehyun grows harder and swears in Korean. At least he assumes it’s a curse word. 

Syd didn’t think he would enjoy the physical act of giving head, but hearing Taehyun’s gasps and moans turns him on, makes him feel god-like and desirable. He even likes how Taehyun feels in his mouth, hard yet sort of spongy, responding to his lips and tongue. And he likes the salty-bitter pre-cum that oozes from the tip, and the way Taehyun flinches and hisses through his teeth when Syd licks away the slimy substance.

Taehyun’s hands tug at Syd’s hair, and Syd pulls back a little, sensing that he’s close. The tip of his tongue plays with the ridges, then the slit, and Taehyun comes with a cry of surprise and relief. Syd sputters and coughs, unprepared for the suddenness of it against his tongue and throat. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand and swallows what’s left in his mouth. Taehyun tastes like cotton, slick and sweet.

“Wow,” Taehyun says, breathless. “That was amazing.”

“It was your first time,” Syd reminds him, mouthing over the virgin skin of Taehyun’s inner thighs and making him squirm. 

“Still good.” Taehyun’s hands linger in Syd’s hair. “I want to do that for you.”

Syd doesn’t argue or protest; he is, after all, a horny teenager in bed with his first love. They switch positions, Taehyun kneeling on the floor and Syd half-naked on the bed. The sensation of Taehyun touching his bare legs almost makes Syd shoot off right there. 

There’s the heat of breath against his cock, the warm curl of fingers, and then Taehyun’s perfect mouth around him. Syd groans, shaking, trying to keep himself from jackhammering into Taehyun’s throat. Syd is so, so close, even with just the tip engulfed. Taehyun uses his tongue to trace the curves and ridges of Syd’s cock, each wet swirl earning a breathy noise from Syd. 

Taehyun gazes up at him with every sound, like he’s seeking instruction or permission to continue. Syd urges him on with an encouraging hand around the back of his head. Taehyun’s mouth works slow and easy until Syd feels the sweet clench of bliss down below, then he’s painting Taehyun’s throat.

“Good?” Taehyun licks his lips (the sight of which almost makes Syd come a second time) and climbs into Syd’s lap to kiss him. A spike of pleasure blooms within him at the skin-on-skin heat of Taehyun’s naked thighs. 

“Yeah,” Syd says around their kisses, “really good. You’re the best.” Taehyun takes Syd’s face in his hands and kisses him harder. “I’m serious. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”


	5. Glory (December 1998)

_“He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”_ \- Friedrich Nietzsche, _Beyond Good and Evil_

* * *

_December 3rd, 1998_

The festivities begin early in the Reed household. Taehyun helps Misty drag the Christmas tree out of the attic. Syd fetches the boxes of ornaments and decorations from the garage. The tree is a holdover from the Reeds' time as an intact family unit, the days when Wade was still around. It’s a huge fir that still looks dwarfed by the home’s vaulted ceilings. They wrap strings of tinsel and white lights around it and hang ornaments from the branches. 

Presents begin to appear in the mail for Misty and Syd, shipped from out-of-state relatives. These are the first wrapped packages to go underneath the tree. Arlene gives each one a thorough sniff examination as they arrive. Sometimes she is found curled underneath the tree among the boxes, as though she herself is a present. 

Misty dresses the cat in a red-and-green collar with a small bell that jingles when she runs. In the family’s Christmas photo, Arlene dons a hideous cat-sized sweater for the sake of the photograph. Syd suggested a pair of reindeer antlers too, but Arlene wouldn’t stand for that. 

At school, Syd and Taehyun are walking across the parking lot when Jesse shouts, “You guys!” from across the way. He’s running at them from the school’s west entrance, skipping down the steps like he’s Charlie Bucket running home with a golden ticket from a Wonka bar. “Guess what Reb has?”

“Herpes?”

Jesse frowns. “What? No.”

“Were you waiting for us?” Syd asks.

“It doesn’t matter. Listen, Reb has these absolutely killer tapes you’re gonna want to see.” Jesse walks with them inside the school. It’s cold, and none of them wants to stay outside longer than necessary. “A couple years ago, there was this guy who was crazy-obsessed with some foreign singer chick, right? He wrote this, like, 800-page diary about how much he loved her and how he wanted to be with her, y’know, all that crazy shit.”

_Not so different from Syd’s diary_ , Taehyun thinks, feeling like an asshole for the comparison.

“Anyway,” Jesse continues, “he finds out she’s dating some famous guy. And the dude goes _nuts!_ He starts recording videos of himself talking about his plan to kill her. He built a bomb with sulfuric acid in a book that he was gonna send to her, so when she opened it— _Kaboom_!” Jesse throws his arms out, miming an explosion. “And then he was gonna kill himself after she died so they could be together. Reb has the video diary tapes. He says the guy’s suicide is actually recorded on one!”

“Why do you sound so excited about that?” Taehyun wonders. He dislikes this side of Syd’s friends, their macabre need to find amusement in the grotesque. 

“Have _you_ ever seen someone die before?” Jesse asks.

“No, and I don’t want to.”

“Your boyfriend’s such a fucking buzzkill, dude,” Jesse murmurs to Syd, but Taehyun hears him too. The jab stings, but it helps Taehyun see himself from a completely different vantage point. “Why do you even like him?”

“Jealous?” asks Syd.

Jesse’s lip curls in disgust. “No way. I’m just saying.”

“Well, don’t ‘say’, alright? I’m sick of hearing it.”

“Fine, whatever,” Jesse grumbles. “Anyway, we’re going to Reb’s after school to watch the tapes. You should come.”

Syd almost answers immediately but stops himself. “I, uh, I have to think about it. Finals are in, like, two weeks.” This hesitation surprises Taehyun; he hasn’t heard Syd complaining about his grades or even worrying about them. 

When the two of them make it to their first-hour math class, Taehyun says, “I didn’t know you were worried about final exams.”

“I’m not.”

“You told Jesse you were.”

“Because it’s a Thursday,” Syd says, reminding him of their arrangement. Tuesdays and Thursdays after school belong exclusively to Syd and Taehyun, and they have rarely broken this agreement with each other. 

Taehyun _would_ prefer to spend the afternoon lounging with Syd, away from the Rebels’ prying eyes. Since Thanksgiving, oral sex has become part of their sexual repertoire, and the two of them have performed at least one sex act everywhere they can get away with it: in Syd’s car, on the basement couch, in Syd’s bedroom, in Taehyun’s bedroom, and even in the shower one night while Misty was away at a teachers’ meeting. But is he being unreasonable by preferring Syd’s lone company?

“You could still go,” Taehyun says. “I’ll come too.” It’s a small price to pay, and Jesse’s buzzkill comment really hit Taehyun where he lives. He doesn’t want to be the person everyone secretly hopes won’t show up to the party. It’s not like his musical taste comes without its own unfortunate stereotypes; the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin were once considered uncouth Satan worshippers, and more modern groups like Soundgarden, Nine Inch Nails, and Orgy have lyrics which could be interpreted as glorifying or romanticizing death.

Maybe being more open to the things Syd likes will deepen their connection. Taehyun should make an effort to be more fun, or at least less critical of the things others enjoy.

Syd looks surprised. “You sure? I know you’re gonna hate whatever’s on those tapes.”

“I made you see _A Bug’s Life_ with me over break,” Taehyun says, as though agreeing to watch the suicide tape of a psychotic man is some sort of penance for dragging Syd to a Disney movie.

“I didn’t hate that. But if you want to come, I won’t stop you. I like being with you.” Syd flashes that goofy, self-conscious grin that makes Taehyun fall in love all over again.

* * *

Reb’s apartment is a bit cleaner than the last time Taehyun was here, though that isn’t saying much. The couch smells like stale sweat, pot, and spilled beer. He doubts it has ever been sprayed with any kind of fabric cleanser. Taehyun shudders to think of how many potato chip crumbs must lie beneath the cushions. 

He grabs a Mountain Dew from the fridge after everyone else has taken a soda. There’s an open bag of nacho cheese Doritos on the table, from which everyone grabs a handful. Syd is squished up against Taehyun, and at least that part feels like home. 

“Before you all freak out on me,” Reb starts, holding a VHS tape in his hand, “I don’t have all the tapes.”

A communal groan of disappointment sounds from the group. 

“This dude left behind twenty-two hours of footage,” Reb says. “We’re not sitting through all that crazy bullshit. I got this footage from a friend, and I had him compile some of the best, craziest stuff into its own tape.”

“A greatest hits tape,” Derek laughs.

Reb grins. “Totally. He had to dive down the twenty-two-hour rabbit hole to make this for us, so props to Brad.” Reb begins a introductory speech as though he’s giving a class presentation. “To set the scene, Ricardo López was an obsessed fan of Björk. He wrote diary entries about her for years, over eight hundred pages. He wrote her letters, cited her as his artistic muse—he wanted to be an artist, by the way—”

“You know who else wanted to be an artist?” Syd says. “Hitler.” Chuckles from the group.

Reb snickers. “López wrote about wishing he had a time machine so he could go back in time and become Björk’s friend while she was a child. According to him, it wasn’t a creepy thing. He said he couldn’t ever have sex with her because he loved her. In his journals, he wrote about how inferior he was, how he hated the way he looked—he was disgusted and embarrassed over having man-tits—and how he couldn’t get a girlfriend. Anyway, when Björk got a boyfriend, López started making video diaries. And that’s what we’ll be watching.”

He pops the tape into the VCR and hits play. He sits in his papasan chair beside the couch and kicks his feet up on the coffee table. 

The footage is probably the most normal-looking thing ever watched in this room. It’s just an overweight, shirtless guy talking to his camera in his apartment. The first clip, dated in January 1996, showcases Ricardo’s anger over Björk’s “betrayal.” With the lens zoomed uncomfortably close to his face, he declares, “She’s fucking a _nigger_. That’s _unacceptable_. Whose fault is that? That’s right. Her fault. And that’s completely unacceptable to me. And, um, I’m just gonna have to kill her.” He goes on to explain that the purpose of the video diaries is to document his plan to kill Björk. 

In the next clip, he talks about how his mother is worried about his mental health, that his parents think he might be having a hard time living by himself in Florida. “My mom wanted to know if I had a gun,” he says. “She goes, ‘if you love us, please don’t ever, ever buy a gun.’ ‘Cause I think I’m probably gonna kill myself.” 

None of this is too far from the angry, depressed ravings in Syd’s journal, and while Taehyun wants to give Syd the benefit of the doubt, he wonders if this is an example of what Syd might have become without Taehyun’s interference.

Ricardo reassesses his life goals, stating that Björk “isn’t worth it” and his plan has been “temporarily postponed” due to the concern of his parents. While he still maintains his obsession, the phone call appears to have realigned his priorities, as the next few clips following it are still incredibly bizarre, but less dark than the ones before. In one scene, he stands in a room lit only by a small lamp, and gestures strangely with his hands as if holding an invisible planet. The look on his face is disconcerting, though that’s probably due to hindsight. 

Taehyun feels a vague sense of unreality creeping in. No one else seems as disturbed as Taehyun, judging by the enraptured looks on their faces. Derek, Syd, Reb, Carrie, and Jesse stare at the TV with hypnotic intensity.

In a clip from July 14th, Ricardo is shirtless again, his hair shaved close to the scalp. He explains that he had an argument with his brother about work; Ricardo had been using his own truck as a garbage can after quitting his job. His brother was Ricardo’s only conduit to his parents and the outside world. Now that he is unemployed and in debt, his mental health and disposition have spiraled. He reverts back to his fantasy world and his murderous plans. “Right now I’m, like, living my fantasy in a way. I’m not scared. I’m very involved in what I’m doing.” He shows the camera a sketchpad with the drawing of a bomb on it. “I’m gonna do it.”

Not only does he want to punish Björk now, he wants to permanently scar or disfigure her. He explains how his first plan to infect her with HIV is unlikely to work. “So what am I left with? Right now, I have two options. I’m eighty-five percent on using hydrochloric acid.”

How is no one else disturbed by what they’re seeing? This disconnect from the room makes Taehyun feel like even more of an outsider. Of course, the Rebels may be desensitized from viewing upsetting things like this on a regular basis. But that’s even worse somehow, because this isn’t a movie filmed on some Hollywood backlot with unconvincing actors; this is actual footage of a real person’s descent into madness. How can someone grow desensitized to _that_?

Cut to another scene. It’s dark, though the time-stamp reads 1:14 pm. Ricardo shows the camera a piece of paper, but the darkness of the scene and the bad quality of the camera make it difficult to see what’s written there. “See this map? Guess where I’m going.” He leans in to the camera. “I’m going to get the hydrochloric acid.”

Another cut. The bucket of hydrochloric acid is in frame. Then Ricardo turns the camera on himself and explains that he’s going to perform some experiments to test the strength of the acid. In another cut, he’s dressed in protective gear like he’s in a chemistry lab, preparing for his experiments. He uses a slice of pizza to test the acid, but it isn’t as strong as he wants it to be. “I’m gonna have to try some on myself,” he says, though there’s no footage of that test.

In a clip dated a few days later, he shows the audience the pint of sulfuric acid on his work table. Cut to another clip. “I’m about to go shopping for guns,” he tells the camera. Another cut, then the audience sees the invoice from the gun shop. “I walked over there and I purchased a Taurus .38-caliber revolver. Two hundred and ten dollars. Very cheap. It’s a four-inch barrel, stainless steel. I’ll pick it up Friday. I had the balls to do it.”

Taehyun’s thoughts become a hysterical spiral. What might Syd have done in those dark years chronicled in his journal if he had access to a gun? Taehyun recalls Syd’s threat to Brooks: _Did you know there’s a legal loophole that lets me bring an adult—which is eighteen, by the way, so, high school senior—to a gun show to buy a gun for me?_ It’s certainly something Syd has researched.

Then Taehyun remembers something Susan said over Thanksgiving: _A few months ago, a fifteen-year-old in Oregon shot and killed his parents before killing two students at his school and wounding twenty-five others._ Christ, Taehyun was so worried about Syd killing himself that he never considered Syd might choose to turn that rage outward. Taehyun’s stomach churns in revolt.

The clips gain a bit more intensity. Ricardo test-fires a BB gun on a self-portrait. Then he tries to test his explosive acid device on a cardboard cutout, but he doesn’t have much luck getting it to detonate easily. The jangly top-forty radio playing in the background of each clip is oddly unnerving; a filmmaker might use it to ground the scenes in reality. But this is no film, and the music is just a reminder that this happened in the same world that they’re all living in. 

In another clip, he shows his appointment card for a mental health clinic. Then a clip where he talks about a surprise visit from his brother. “The first thing I do is get my gun and put it in my drawer, hide a few other things real quick.” Ricardo laments how his brother was there to check on him; he explains that he lied about his mental health and sent his brother away thinking Ricardo was doing fine. This surprise visit seems to have accelerated Ricardo’s plan. 

In a clip dated August 20th, a shirtless Ricardo tells the camera, “Very exciting that this is the last couple weeks of my life. Not that I’m having second thoughts or anything, it just… I don’t know, it feels unreal.”

“For a dude ashamed of his man-boobs, he’s shirtless a lot,” Derek says. Reb, Syd, and Jesse laugh. Carrie half-smiles, as though a laugh might distract her from what’s happening on the screen.

“What is the number one prime directive?” Ricardo asks in another entry. “Number one is to end my life. Number two, to get this into her hands and for it to blow up.” He then debates his options for actually sending the bomb by mail and shooting himself. “I’m gonna fuck you up, Björk!” he says, performing a brief happy dance before returning to his run-through of the logistics. As he talks about the feasibility of his plan, he seems to grow excited, gaining more energy than seen in prior clips. 

He tries to justify his decisions by claiming that the act of having children is selfish, since they never chose to be born. “It is a fucking crime to bring children into this world, and you shall pay for it, with pain, with suffering!” he says. “We live in a world of monsters. It belongs to them.”

“I mean, he’s not _wrong_ ,” Derek points out.

“A broken clock is right twice a day,” Syd says, as agreement or counterpoint Taehyun doesn’t know. 

Another clip. Ricardo is fully naked in this one as he shows off his creation: the acid bomb. Chortles arise from Reb, Derek, Syd, and Jesse. “I can see where his feelings of inferiority came from,” Reb says with a snicker. That dark, foreboding feeling of terror steals back into Taehyun’s heart.

The final day. September 12th, 1996. 8:59 a.m. Ricardo speaks to the camera before mailing the package containing the bomb. He talks about how nervous he is. “Better hurry up and go now.” He returns later, having mailed the package, and his frightening energy is back. “This should be the suicide thing,” he says, slapping his own face to psych himself up. To Taehyun, this is proof that even suicidal people still have some remaining will to live. Why else would Ricardo have to work himself up to suicide?

This section of the tape is unedited, rolling continuously, save for the spaces where he actually turned the camera off. He shaves his head and eyebrows, each cut transforming him into a more horrifying sight.

“Here we go, boys,” Reb says with anticipation, rubbing his hands together like a housefly about to vomit on its meal.

Ricardo begins painting his face, a painstaking effort soundtracked to various classic rock songs on the radio. His entire face becomes engulfed in red paint between short scene cuts, then he paints in a few dark stripes. A glaring light behind him adds to the eerie, surreal mood of the footage. 

He creates another piece of “artwork,” a canvas with the words “The Best of Me” written on it. He has placed this behind him as he sits on the couch, the camera still rolling. The red-and-black zigzags painted over his face make him more disturbing every time he gets close to the camera.

“He looks like a psycho Mexican wrestler,” Jesse says.

The camera pans to show a message written on the wall: _The 8mm tapes are a documentation of a crime. They are for the FBI._ The message includes an arrow pointing to said tapes. Then the camera pans back to Ricardo. He explains that he’s waiting for the building manager to leave before he pulls the trigger. In the meantime, he paints his nipples. 

Taehyun is on the edge of his seat. He knows the suicide is coming, but he doesn’t know when. There are no tell-tale signs of an impending scare like in the movies: no music cues, no lighting changes, no slow zooms. In some way, Ricardo has created a stellar horror film based on Hitchcock’s philosophy: “There is no fear in the bang, only the anticipation of it.” Would the suspense still exist if Taehyun didn’t know the outcome? Probably. There’s something deeply unsettling about this footage, even devoid of context.

As the tape goes on, Ricardo begins to get visibly nervous, like he fully realizes the magnitude of what he’s about to do. “Okay, it’s time,” he says, cueing up his favorite Björk songs. He rambles on about his last words. “This is the last few minutes of my life. I feel a little nervous now.” He checks himself in the mirror; does he like what he sees in that moment? He shows the gun to the camera and waits out the song. “This death is for you, Björk. For you to see it.” 

Ricardo grows somewhat somber and contemplative as the music goes on. He seems to be psyching himself up, taking deep, calming breaths. “My heart’s pumping,” he says. More deep breaths. Silence, except for the soft tones of Björk’s voice. The song on its own would be haunting, and juxtaposed against this footage it’s disturbing. His breathing grows harder, more intense. “This is for you!” he shouts. In one swift motion, he sticks the gun into his mouth and pulls the trigger.

“Oh shit!” Syd yelps. 

The sounds of those final moments are what stick with Taehyun. The gun goes off with a pop. Ricardo makes an inhuman “uhhh” sound, then there is a wet, dripping splatter, like a burst from an unreliable faucet. There is an incredible finality to this footage, as Ricardo’s body drops out of frame and the camera continues to roll. At 2:53 p.m., Ricardo López is dead.

Taehyun is shocked, but somehow too stunned to fully inhabit the feeling. He goes numb, his mind trying to process what he’s seen and coming up short each time. In just two hours’ worth of footage, Taehyun has witnessed a man’s slow descent into madness. He can’t imagine watching all twenty-two hours of footage and keeping his sanity. He doesn’t think you can bear witness to things like that without losing a piece of yourself. 

“You know what’s funny?” Reb says when the tape is over. “Björk broke up with that black dude a day before Ricardo’s suicide.”

Taehyun doesn’t think that’s funny at all. He finds the whole affair incredibly tragic. “Did she ever get the bomb?”

“No, Scotland Yard intercepted it at the post office. But it would never have made it to her anyway. Celebrities don’t open their own mail for this exact reason.”

“Holy fucking shit,” Jesse says. “I feel like I lost my whole mind for two hours.”

“I know, right?” Carrie says. “I need a shower after watching that.”

“Let’s save water and shower together,” Derek jokes, wiggling his eyebrows at her. Carrie tells him to shut up, albeit sweetly, and jostles him with an elbow.

Syd looks at Taehyun. “You okay?” he murmurs, and Taehyun appreciates his concern. That’s something Taehyun’s always loved about him, how considerate Syd is to his feelings, even when Syd doesn’t give a fuck about anyone else’s. 

Taehyun manages to nod. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

Syd says that he hasn’t either.

* * *

They’re lying in bed, separated by the barrier of clothing, when Taehyun says, “I don’t understand how you can enjoy something like that.”

Syd seems to understand Taehyun’s not talking about the make-out session they just finished. “I wouldn’t say I _enjoyed_ it. I know you think I’m a freak, but every culture since the beginning of time has been fascinated with death. The ancient Egyptians mummified dead bodies. Every religion was created to make peace with the idea of dying. The Bible ends in a fucking apocalypse. Funerals are pretty weird when you think about it, especially open-casket funerals. It doesn’t make me crazy to be intrigued by death and murder.”

“I never said you were crazy.”

“But that’s what you think, right? That I’m one bad day away from doing the kind of shit he did?”

Taehyun decides not to answer that one directly. “I read your journal.”

Syd sighs like he’s tired of having this argument. It’s something they go through every time Syd indulges his morbid curiosity in front of Taehyun, so Syd probably _is_ sick of it. “A journal that also had a bunch of shit in there about how much I like you. You’re cherry-picking the worst parts. Truth is, everyone has a dark side. Most people go their whole lives without giving into it, but it's there. It's the part of you that would kill a million strangers to save the life of a loved one. The part that wonders what it would be like to jump out a twenty-story window.”

Taehyun almost argues that he has never had such thoughts, but is that necessarily true? During his previous school year, a group of older boys jumped him, poured baby oil over him, and bowled him down the hall into the wave of oncoming foot traffic. They cackled and howled as Taehyun crashed into other students, and in that moment he wanted to hurt them. _Really_ hurt them. He pictured himself taking a crowbar out of his father’s garage and catching each of the perpetrators after school, giving each of them a few hearty wallops until they screamed for him to stop. And he would stop, because he wasn’t a murderer. He just wanted revenge.

He never did it, of course, or anything remotely in the same psychotic wheelhouse. Just to know that he _could_ was a thought comforting enough to carry him through the remainder of the school year. Whenever an overconfident bully shoulder-checked him in the hallway, Taehyun thought about slinging brain matter off the end of that crowbar. The idea that he was sparing his tormentors by choosing not to hurt them had a wicked attraction, made him feel like the very nature of his mercy was virtuous. 

He supposes the only thing that separates him from Syd is that Taehyun grew to fear those thoughts, to lock them away in a little mental box and throw away the key.

“Maybe you’re right,” Taehyun says. He tells Syd the crowbar story, watching Syd’s face grow concerned, then impressed, then smug. To tell it is a weight off his chest, and he likes that Syd doesn’t shy away from the darker parts of him. Taehyun has assumed Syd’s attraction to him is based off the idea that he’s a goody-goody, too pure and kind-hearted to ever consider whipping a wrench or a crowbar across the mouth of a bully. 

“Those fuckers should be shot,” Syd says when Taehyun is finished.

Taehyun expected that sort of reaction, and yet he’s still caught off-guard and a little disappointed by it. “They were just kids.”

Syd scoffs. “So are we. And kids can be fucking evil. Did you ever hear about Junko Furuta?” 

The name strikes Taehyun as familiar, but he can’t place it. He shakes his head.

“She was a Japanese schoolgirl who was kidnapped and tortured by a bunch of sadistic little pricks around our age. They kept her for, like, forty days and did all sorts of horrible shit to her: raping her, lighting her on fire, shoving bottles inside of her, making her eat bugs. They ended up killing her and stuffing her body into a barrel with wet concrete.” 

Taehyun contemplates this horror in silence. 

“And then there was this big case in England where two kids kidnapped this three-year-old and abused him. They didn’t even know him. They left him on the train tracks to get run over. He was practically a baby. So, yeah, kids can be maniacs.” Syd gets an arm around Taehyun’s shoulders, his fingers playing with his hair. It’s soothing, contrasting the horror of their conversation, and Taehyun closes his eyes. “I’m sorry you had to see that video.”

“I volunteered,” Taehyun says with a shrug. “The worst part isn’t seeing him die. That’s bad, but I mean…” Taehyun pauses. He still struggles with finding the right words sometimes. “I can pretend blood and gore are special effects. But that video was like… soul gore. We connect with someone’s emotional pain. And watching something like that and connecting with his pain and fear and anger, we become him in those moments. It’s like part of him was already dead before he ever shot himself.” 

“Yeah, it was pretty bad,” Syd agrees. “The only other video I’ve seen like that is the Budd Dwyer suicide. That’s the guy Filter wrote ‘Hey Man, Nice Shot’ about. He was a politician who got accused of some sort of scandal—embezzlement, I think—so he held a press conference like he was going to resign, but he pulled out a gun and shot himself. It was a big deal ‘cause people saw it live on TV.

“But both of those were handgun suicides. I’ve seen the aftermath of shotgun suicides, and holy shit, I can’t imagine watching a video of one of those. I guess it would be like that scene in _Scanners_.”

Taehyun supposes that’s a reference to a movie he hasn’t seen. “Why do you seek that stuff out?”

“Same reason you agreed to come see it. Curiosity. Watching something on a screen creates detachment. I wouldn’t want to see someone shoot themselves right in front of me, but watching a recording makes it seem like it’s just another movie. And because most of us never see that stuff in real life, we’re curious about it. We wanna peek behind the curtain at the mess of life. And I guess maybe being young has something to do with that curiosity.”

“In one of your journal entries, you said maybe it’s better to stay in the darkness. Actually seeing what’s in the dark will drive you crazy.”

“Do you know what a virtual machine is?”

“No?” Taehyun says, fearing he’s answered wrong. He has no idea where Syd is going with this.

“It’s basically a computer that runs on a computer. You can use it to test software or view virus-infested websites without actually harming the real machine. All the horror and gore and death videos get loaded onto my brain’s virtual computer. They don’t cross over to the real brain. I think cops, doctors, paramedics, morticians, crime scene cleaners, and everyone else who takes a job where they have to see horrible shit daily has a brain like that, one that can sift out the bad stuff.”

Taehyun thinks that’s bullshit, at least where Syd is concerned. Maybe professionals have those kind of compartmentalization skills, but not a sixteen-year-old. 

Syd turns a little so he can fully face Taehyun instead of gazing at the ceiling. “Can we put a pin in the philosophy talk? ‘Cause I’ve really wanted to have sex with you for, like, the last fifteen minutes.”

They were making out before then, and Taehyun broke away because his thoughts were racing. He needed a moment to put himself together, to suss out what he’d seen and Syd’s motivation for treating the video as entertainment. Maybe he’ll never truly understand why Syd ventures into the dark, why he lets pieces of his soul fall away like loose feathers. But Syd loves him, and he loves Syd, the kind of pure, unadulterated adoration that can only be found with one’s first love. Isn’t that enough?

It’s easy for them to start kissing again. Syd’s smirky mouth is full of temptation and lust, and it makes Taehyun feel newly desired every time. Syd heats up the intensity of their kisses, pulling Taehyun’s T-shirt over his head and fumbling his briefs down his legs. The air chills his bare skin, and Syd’s slick, wet kisses on his inner thighs give Taehyun goosebumps. The insides of his thighs are marked up with evidence of gentle bites from previous sexual encounters; these marks are private reminders of their intimacy, and Taehyun always feels his stomach flip when he catches sight of them.

Syd opens the drawer of his night stand and removes the bottle of baby oil they’ve been using to lubricate their mutual jerk-off sessions. Syd gets his fingers wet and moves so they’re lying beside each other, face-to-face. He bites his lip, enjoying whatever he’s seeing on Taehyun’s face.

“You are so fucking perfect,” Syd says, tracing his slippery fingers along the line of Taehyun’s thigh. His hand catches behind his knee as he drapes Taehyun’s leg over his hips. Then Syd’s hand moves between Taehyun's legs, avoiding his cock altogether and teasing an oil-slick finger at his hole. Taehyun can’t stop the gasp that leaves his lungs.

“It’s okay,” Syd murmurs. “Just relax.” Taehyun does, then there’s a slick push that makes him groan. The sensation is beyond weird, but it doesn’t hurt like he thought it would. There’s really no pain at all, just a satisfying fullness. 

He considers how this might feel with Syd’s cock instead of his fingers, and the thought makes him shiver. Syd mistakes this for discomfort, and kisses wherever he can reach: Taehyun’s lips, his cheek, the curve of his shoulder. His fingers move in slow, slippery pushes, letting Taehyun get used to it. 

Being touched like this is brand-new and exciting, and Taehyun rocks his hips into Syd’s hand, and that lights up a whole new batch of nerves. Taehyun cries out, and Syd shushes him with a kiss; they are in Taehyun’s bedroom, which shares a wall with Misty’s room. Though he doubts she would interrupt them, it would certainly make for an embarrassing conversation over breakfast if she heard sex noises coming from this room. But how is Taehyun supposed to keep quiet, when Syd’s fingers won’t stop hammering that spot inside him that makes his toes curl?

He feels a slow pull in his core, like everything below his waist is a string pulled tight. He tries to hold onto the feeling, but Syd is relentless, and Taehyun comes. It seems to happen in waves, each one stronger than the last until his pleasure peaks, like touching the clouds, reverberating all the way down. Syd touches him until it’s over, though his fingers work gently, as if aware that Taehyun is much more sensitive now. 

“I’m still shaking,” Taehyun says, awed, and immediately feels foolish for saying it. Of course Syd can see that—can feel it, even.

But Syd just smiles and says, “So am I,” sounding breathless himself as he gazes at Taehyun. 

* * *

_December 13th, 1998_

Syd, Misty, and Taehyun spend a lazy Sunday baking various goodies to mail out to the Reed relatives. This year’s recipes are peppermint fudge and Christmas cookie bark. Two sheets of each treat will be sent out as gifts, and one sheet will remain for snacking purposes. Taehyun snacks on marshmallows as the three of them work.

After the fudge is finished, Misty steps outside to check the mail. She returns with an armful of letters and packages. “Taehyun, looks like your parents sent you something!” she says cheerily, setting the load of mail onto the dining table.

“Oh no.” Taehyun examines the haul, and finds the letter postmarked from South Korea. He tears it open and finds a long handwritten letter. He unfolds it, and three American twenty-dollar bills reveal themselves, concealed inside the folded paper. “No!” he gasps.

“What’s wrong?” Syd wonders, sounding nervous. “Do they want you to come home?”

“They sent me money for Christmas.”

“And that’s bad because…”

“Their economy is not doing well,” Taehyun reminds him with a sigh.

“Honey, parents make sacrifices for their children,” Misty says. “It’s our job. I’m sure they’re happy to send you something.” She wraps him in a hug and strokes his hair. “When Syd and I were first on our own, it was hard, but I wanted to be a good mom. It meant not buying that cute dress for myself so Syd could get a video game for Christmas, or living off ramen and buttered noodles for a month so we could have his birthday at Casa Bonita. But I never saw it as a sacrifice or something I was giving up. I bet that’s how your parents see it too.” 

Taehyun looks at the letter in one hand and the money in the other. “Maybe you’re right. I just worry.”

* * *

Later, when the treats are packed away in the fridge, Misty makes them hot chocolate, and they sit together on the couch to watch _Home Alone_. “I should use the money to go shopping for gifts,” Taehyun says. He looks at Syd. “Is that a good idea?”

“It’s your money, dude. Spend it how you want. We could go to the mall next weekend. I need to pick some stuff up too. Mom, can I have some money?”

Misty laughs. “It wouldn’t be fair to give you more than Taehyun got, would it?”

“Whatever, sixty is fine. I only have you guys to buy for anyway.”

“What about the Rebels?” Taehyun asks. 

“Yeah, don’t play favorites,” Misty cajoles him.

“They’re not really the gift-exchange type. Maybe I could get something, like, for Carrie, but the others would get the wrong idea.” Syd can only imagine handing Derek a flamboyantly-wrapped present; even if what was underneath the paper was something he liked, Derek would still laugh at him and call him gay. Reb would only appreciate things Syd’s not of a legal age to buy yet (cigarettes, guns, alcohol) or can’t legally buy at all (weed, ecstasy, mushrooms), and Jesse would probably feel obligated to get him something in return.

Misty agrees to give him sixty dollars by next weekend, and they settle in and watch the movie. Taehyun rests against Syd’s arm the entire time. He is warm and solid, and Syd’s pretty sure he doesn’t need presents as long as he can have Taehyun.

* * *

_December 20th, 1998_

“You still bummed about not being with your family for the holidays?” Syd asks. They’re at the newly-opened Denver Pavilions, an open-air shopping center. The mall is decked out in holiday decorations. Banners bearing snowflakes and cartoon Santas hang from strings of overhead lights. There are Christmas trees in nearly every storefront, each one fully decorated. The walkway railings are adorned with tinsel and lights. A steady, subtle soundtrack of Christmas music flows from unseen speakers.

Taehyun is bundled in a colorful bomber jacket with a long-sleeved shirt underneath, and a pair of light-wash jeans. He looks effortlessly fashionable, though Syd has never particularly cared to have a grasp on fashion. He’s satisfied with his own ensemble of dark, oversized hoodies, baseball caps, and band T-shirts. Today he has chosen a black hoodie, a KMFDM T-shirt, and dark jeans with enough rips in the legs to be considered shorts. They look like polar opposites walking together.

They pass by a shoe store. “I know you were really torn up about _Chuseok_ ,” Syd says.

Taehyun presses his lips together, the way he does when he’s trying not to smile or crack up. “Can I tell you a secret?” Syd says yes. “That night… I was not thinking so much about my family. I was heartbroken over you.”

It sounds melodramatic, and Syd almost laughs, because it seems impossible that anyone besides his mother could be heartbroken over him. “Me? Why?”

Taehyun shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. His cheeks are flushing pink. “Because I liked you a lot. You brought me to that lake and had fireworks just for me, because you wanted to help me celebrate _Gaecheonjeol_. It was so kind of you, and my heart ached because I knew we could never be more than friends.”

“You should’ve read my journal way earlier,” Syd says, immediately dismissive of affection as usual, but inside he is bursting. “I wanted to kiss you so bad that night, but I lost my nerve. I was afraid I’d ruin a good thing for you.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“I know that now,” Syd says, smiling.

All of his favorite stores are on the first level of the mall: Virgin Megastore, Hot Topic, and Barnes & Noble. The bookstore is first, so that’s where they go. Syd is the type of person who has at least two books rented from the library at all times. Sitting on his night table now are Stephen King’s _Desperation, Mindhunter_ (a look inside the FBI’s criminal profiling division), and a hardcover about the Waco siege. The latter is research for a paper in his psychology class on how and why people fall into cults.

The shop smells like coffee and fresh books. “You read, right?” Syd asks as they browse. “I mean, I know you do, but what do you like?”

Taehyun says he doesn’t know. “I will read anything. I like all kinds of stories, and I like to learn about things. But it takes me a while to read in English. In Korean, I can finish most books in one night.”

“Don’t brag,” Syd teases, lightly nudging him. 

They find the comics section and have a look. When Syd was younger, he would browse this aisle for hours, bringing different superhero comics to the reading lounge and poring over them until his mother came to find him. Now his tastes are more mature, but he can still spend hours exploring the shelves. 

He finds a neat art book full of illustrations based on the work of Hunter S. Thompson. He is particularly fond of the Illustrated Classics series, which puts a comic-book-style spin on classic literature; past editions have served him well for school essays when Shakespeare is assigned.

“See anything you like?” Syd asks.

Taehyun examines some kind of Japanese comic. “Just browsing,” he says, like he’s already learned the standard deflection for overbearing salespeople. 

“I’m kind of at a loss for what to get you. A hint would really help me out.”

“You don’t need to get me anything,” Taehyun says.

“Don’t say I’m your present.”

“But you are.” Taehyun grins. “Does that mean I’m not your present?”

“I never said that. I don’t expect you to get me anything,” Syd says, flustered.

Taehyun gives him a knowing smile. “Sure.”

They wander toward the back of the store, near the crime and law section. Syd spots a display for a newly-released book on the Oklahoma City bombing. “I’ve been trying to read this for a whole month,” he says, tapping the cover. “But people keep checking it out of the library.”

“What’s it about?”

“A few years ago, two guys blew up a government building in Oklahoma City that killed a bunch of people. But there’s a lot of talk that it wasn’t just them, and maybe other people were involved in the plot, and the government knew about it beforehand and covered it up.” Syd shrugs, sensing that he’s rambling about something Taehyun has no interest in. “Just… dumb morbid shit, right?”

“It sounds more like part of history than simply something morbid,” Taehyun says. “Like the wars and events you study in class.”

Syd appreciates that.

“Are you going to buy it?”

“I can’t. I’ve only got, like, sixty bucks, and I have stuff to buy for other people.” Syd checks his watch. “Why don’t we split up and buy what we need, and meet up at the Hard Rock at four?” They passed the restaurant on the way to the bookstore, and Taehyun liked the guitar-shaped sign. 

Taehyun agrees, and Syd decides to shop for his mother first. She’s the easiest person to buy for, as he’s been buying her gifts and observing her taste his entire life. His mother’s taste and size in clothing is always a crapshoot, so he heads to the second floor for the Bath & Body Works. Misty loves lotions and good-smelling stuff; Syd assumes that’s a pretty safe bet across the board where women are concerned, but he could be wrong. 

The store is crowded, which simultaneously distresses and eases Syd; a crowded shop means salespeople will be too busy to bug him every five minutes, but the number of people in the store makes him feel claustrophobic and judged. “I’m shopping for my mom,” he feels compelled to say when asked what he’s looking for, and this is a good answer. It makes him look like a thoughtful, caring son—which he likes to think that he is, despite his flaws. 

There are walls of different scents, each fragrance packaged in multiple variations: body lotion, body cream, candles, hand soap, mist fragrance, shampoo. He doesn’t know what the difference is between body cream and body lotion, and he’s too afraid to ask. He finds the gift sets intriguing, though the large size is a bit too pricey for his budget.

After a great deal of scent-testing, he opts for a small gift basket of an arbitrarily-named pink fragrance that boasts “a festive blend of pink prosecco, sparkling quince, crystal peonies, gilded amber, and amaretto crème.” He has no idea what half of that shit even _is_ , but his mom will like it, and that’s the deciding factor.

If Syd could hole up anywhere and wait out a nuclear apocalypse, he would choose the Virgin Megastore. It’s exactly what it proclaims to be: a huge store filled with music, movies, video games, and memorabilia. Another store he could spend hours in, and he nearly does, browsing the endless racks of CDs, movies, and PlayStation games. 

Carrie mentioned owning a Nintendo 64, but all the games for that console are way over Syd’s budget, ranging from thirty-five to fifty bucks. He supposes he could find one cheaper at a GameStop or FuncoLand, but he’s not going to make a special trip this close to the actual holiday. 

Though he knows Carrie's taste in music and movies, he has no idea what tapes and CDs she already owns. T-shirts are out, as he doesn’t want to guess her size and risk a poor fit. Girls are sensitive about that sort of thing, he knows from his mother. During a trip to Goodwill when Syd was about thirteen, Misty once burst into tears inside a fitting room when the jeans she brought in were too snug. Syd didn’t understand the big deal (”Just get a bigger size,” he said, which only made her cry harder). Looking back, he’s sure something else had been bothering her that day, and the too-small jeans just added insult to injury. Still, he should probably avoid gifting a girl clothes.

He ends up with a gift card to the megastore. At least Carrie can pick out something she likes, or use the gift card along with cash to soften the financial blow of a more expensive item. 

His final gift recipient: Taehyun. Entirely out of ideas, Syd heads for a quaint trinket and gift shop on the first floor. Maybe that will spark an idea or a memory. Did Taehyun recently mention something he wanted? Syd can’t remember. Taehyun said he didn’t need a gift, but Syd knows he’ll be a little disappointed if there’s nothing under the tree for him come Christmas day. And if Taehyun gets him something, Syd will feel even worse about the omission. 

He knows Taehyun likes cute things and wears a lot of bright colors. But most of the items here in that category are a touch too girly, like fuzzy diaries, pens with plush animal toppers, and pink glittery pencil cases. 

His focus shifts to room decor. Taehyun hasn’t put up much on the walls of his bedroom; he has three stuffed animals on his bed, including the giant frog Syd won for him at the theme park, which line the wall like audience members whenever Syd and Taehyun fool around. Above the headboard are photographs he has pinned, some of his family, and others of himself and Syd; there is generic, abstract framed art on the walls, though those were there prior to Taehyun’s arrival—Misty’s attempt at making the guest room look cozier. 

Aside from these few cosmetic changes, Taehyun seems to be treating the place like a hotel room, a place where he will stay for a bit and eventually depart, leaving no traces of himself behind. It breaks Syd’s heart.

He finds a cute fish-shaped rug, but it’s too expensive. Hidden amongst the shelves of on-sale trinkets is a terracotta turtle planter with a plastic plant inside. At least, he thinks it’s plastic. Maybe it’s one of those succulent things. The price tag on the bottom says ten dollars, but it’s recently been marked down to four-fifty. What a steal. He also finds a three-dollar coffee mug that says “World’s Best Mom.” _That’ll work_ , he thinks. Then he finds a small snowglobe carried on the back of a golden snail. On his way to the register, he picks up a framed 3-D art piece of swimming dolphins.

“How come this was marked down so much?” he asks as the cashier rings up the turtle.

“Oh, the tail got chipped here, see?” She points to the back of the turtle, where his stubby terracotta tail has seemingly broken off.

“I didn’t even notice. It’s cute.”

“People pass up a lot of good things over little flaws,” she agrees, wrapping the planter in newspaper, and Syd finds this deeply profound.

He heads for the Hard Rock Cafe around three-thirty and finds Taehyun already sitting on a nearby bench. “How long have you been waiting?” Syd asks.

“Just a few minutes. I knew what I was going to buy, but I walked around a bit to see if I could find something better.”

“Did you?”

“A few things,” Taehyun says, smiling mysteriously. 

* * *

_December 29th, 1998_

Christmas comes and goes in a cozy blur of warm treats and sweaters. Syd didn’t bound out of bed at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning; he hasn't done that since he turned thirteen and realized a Super Nintendo or a PlayStation wouldn’t fill the empty void inside of him. This year, his motivation to stay in bed longer was Taehyun, who was cuddled up beside him and looking impossibly delicate. Syd watched him sleep for a while, filled with a flood of undefinable emotions. Eventually Taehyun stirred and noticed Syd staring at him. “Happy Christmas,” Taehyun said.

Misty made pancakes that morning, then they all sat around the tree and opened presents. Taehyun gifted Syd the book he mentioned wanting at the bookstore, and he gave Misty a cookbook for brownies, cookies, and other assorted baked goodies. Syd never got around to making a Christmas list this year, so Misty gave him cash. For Taehyun, she chose a blue and yellow winter coat to replace the only proper coat he owned, which had been falling apart since he arrived. Syd’s gifts to his mother and Taehyun went over just as well as he anticipated; Taehyun put the turtle planter on the windowsill of his bedroom, and the snail globe on top of his bureau, and the dolphin picture now hangs on the wall near the window. 

Tonight, after a long trip to the grocery store, Syd and Taehyun relax in the basement after dinner. Taehyun cooked for them earlier, using some of the ingredients he bought at the store to make a pot of stew. “My father used to make _budae jjigae_ for us a lot when I was younger,” he explained. “It is a recipe from his childhood. After the war, Koreans had very little to eat, so they mixed leftover meat from the US Army with other things they had.” The stew was a hot, delicious mess of Spam, ground beef, hot dogs, beans, ramen noodles, and vegetables in a rich broth. “This soup makes me feel at home,” Taehyun said as they ate. 

Now, they’re lying on the basement couch, smoking out of Syd’s bong and listening to the Smashing Pumpkins’ magnum opus, _Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness_. “This album fucking rules, dude,” Syd said before placing the disc into his PlayStation; the TV sound system is much better than the speakers on his crappy portable boombox. The bong is a gift from Carrie, who exchanged it with him when he stopped by her place to give her his gift. She must have remembered him wishing he’d had one of his own, and lamenting that he was too young to buy “tobacco” accessories. 

Taehyun has developed a knack for smoking, which Syd feels somewhat guilty about. “You _like_ this, right?” Syd asks during “Galapogos.” It’s one of his favorite tracks, primarily for the lyric: _And if we died right now, this fool you loved somehow is here with you_. “I mean, I didn’t peer-pressure you into smoking with me or anything?”

“I like it,” Taehyun says. Smoke swirls around him in the air as he exhales. “It feels good. Relaxing. I don’t need to think too hard.”

“That’s why most people smoke pot,” Syd agrees. “I just don’t want to be like… a bad influence.” He laughs at the absurdity of those words leaving his mouth. “Or, I guess, changing you so much that you’re a different person from when you showed up.”

“Change is part of life. No one can be themselves forever, because the self is always changing.”

“Deep, dude.” Syd supposes that’s true; he's felt a great deal of changes within himself since Taehyun’s arrival. He has become kinder, more confident, more daring. But those are positive changes, and he wonders whether Taehyun would consider his own changes positive. Has Taehyun’s life improved since meeting Syd, or is he on a downward spiral, entrenched in alienation, anger, and disenfranchisement?

_Too much to think about_ , Syd muses, and borrows the bong for another hit.

The second disc of _Mellon Collie_ is filled with more thoughtful, morose, and bittersweet music. He returns to the couch after swapping discs. “This album meant a lot to me when I was in middle school,” he says. “I was an awkward thirteen-year-old with no friends and no dad, but at least music was there for me. Bands that write about depression and how shitty things are really help me feel less like a freak for feeling the way I do.” He looks at Taehyun. “Do you have an album like that? One that kinda-sorta saved you?”

Taehyun picks at the frayed ends of a cushion. “You’ll laugh.”

“No way. Have I ever laughed at you when you’re being sincere?”

“No, but…” Taehyun shrugs. “It’s _Green_ by R.E.M. I found it last year when things were difficult…” He trails off, seemingly lost in the memory of old wounds. “It’s not about what they’re saying, really. It just reminded me how good music can make you feel.”

Syd nods. He understands. “Why did you think I would laugh?”

Taehyun squirms. “You’re into really heavy stuff, and people like that think mainstream music is lame.”

“Because they’re dicks. Dude, I grew up listening to all sorts of music. My mom would play ‘80s pop all the time when I was growing up. My dad was into the classic rock staples and even country-western stuff from the ‘50s. I listen to hard music ‘cause I like it, not because I think it makes me cooler than everyone else—that’s just a side effect.” Syd winks, signaling that he’s joking. “But one of the only valuable lessons my dad ever taught me was that there’s something to be appreciated in all music. A song may not connect with me, but it connects with someone out there, and that’s enough. Art doesn’t have to be everything to everyone to have value.”

“Are you always this deep, or is it the pot?” Taehyun asks, half-teasing. 

“I’m always deep. I’m so deep they call me Captain Nemo, ‘cause I’m 20,000 leagues under the sea.”

Taehyun howls with laughter. “No one calls you that.”

Syd’s eternally grateful for the humor-boosting effects of weed; his jokes are never funnier than when they’re both high. “C’mere and I’ll show you how _deep_ I can be.” He lifts an eyebrow, and Taehyun flushes red all the way to his hairline. They haven’t tried anal sex yet, but it’s the last checkmark on Syd’s sexual to-do list. He’s been working up to it with his fingers, his tongue (oh, the noises Taehyun made _that_ night), and now his dick will complete the holy trinity of ass-play. 

Taehyun hesitates.

“Y—you don’t have to, I was just—”

“No, I want to. I—” Taehyun stammers, unable to look Syd in the eye for any of this. “I’m nervous. What if it hurts? What if you don’t like it? What if I’m not any good?” If a drop of water hit his cheek, it would sizzle.

Syd sets the bong on the end table and scoots closer, sliding a hand over Taehyun’s thigh. “One, I don’t know if it hurts or not, but a lot of people do it, so it must not be too bad. If it does hurt, we can stop. Two, it’s you, so I’m gonna love it. Three, how would I know if you’re no good?”

“You had sex with Carrie,” Taehyun says, sounding like he’s trying to keep any hint of accusation out of his voice. 

“One time. And I had to think about _you_ to cum. Not to sound gay, but, like, having sex with someone you love is supposed to be pretty fucking awesome. Even if it’s not great, we can keep trying until it is.”

Taehyun looks at him— _really_ looks at him—and sees something indescribable on Syd’s face. Whatever it is, Taehyun must trust it, because he nods and says, “Okay.” A wild grin spreads across his face, like he’s next in line for a heart-pounding roller coaster. 

Syd excuses himself to retrieve the supplies from upstairs. Misty is on the couch, a bowl of grapes in her lap as she watches television. Arlene is there too, sticking her paw into the bowl of grapes and trying to fish one out. The TV is turned to some crime program, maybe _Unsolved Mysteries_. Misty stops him on his way down the hall. “You two okay down there?”

“Yeah, fine.” He feels the urge to hurry; the longer he’s gone, the higher the chances of killing the mood, or Taehyun second-guessing what they’re about to do. He rushes into his room and pulls open the nightstand drawer. He grabs the bottle of lube and two condoms from inside. He took the condoms during one of the school’s safe sex awareness assemblies last year; at the time, he grabbed a handful and joked to himself that he’d use them as water balloons. Syd stuffs the items into his pockets and slinks down the hall, hoping his mother won’t call him over for some reason or another. Lucky for him, she doesn’t, and he flees to the basement.

Taehyun is waiting for him, peering over the back of the couch. Syd sits on the chaise and fishes the items out of his pockets. He sets them on the end table, next to the bong and the can of cherry Coke he was drinking earlier. Taehyun watches him as if waiting for further instructions. 

“Come here,” Syd says, and Taehyun scoots closer. Syd kisses him to ease his tension, taking Taehyun’s face in his hands. He brushes the shell of Taehyun’s ear with his fingertips, grinning at the shiver that runs through him and the way Taehyun smiles against his lips.

“I’m still nervous,” Taehyun says, allowing Syd to capture his mouth again.

“You’ve taken my fingers before. It’s like that, but bigger.”

“Maybe not by much.” Taehyun laughs, blushing even harder when he tries to stop himself. “I’m joking, of course I’m joking!” 

Syd can’t even be mad; Taehyun is adorable when he laughs. His hand runs over Taehyun’s thigh, and he murmurs, “Just for that… Get in my lap.”

Taehyun does as he’s told, his knees on either side of Syd’s hips. They’re on the chaise part of the couch, which gives them room to move and rearrange limbs if necessary. Syd slides a hand from Taehyun’s hair down to the hem of his T-shirt, and pushes his way underneath. Taehyun’s skin is feverish, and Syd means to touch all of him. He moves his hand up the valley of Taehyun’s spine, over the hills of his shoulder blades, then around to his chest, where his heart pounds and pounds beneath Syd’s fingers.

Syd pulls Taehyun’s T-shirt over his head and covers a nipple with his mouth. Taehyun groans a small sound of surprise and pleasure—and Syd’s cock is suddenly an iron bar in his jeans because, fuck, that’s a hot little noise—and his hips jerk in a short, hard thrust when Syd adds teeth to the equation. 

Premature ejaculation is the last thing Syd needs on his sexual résumé, so he figures they’re just going to get this over with now and save the whole concept of stamina for later. He pushes his hands inside Taehyun’s jeans, at the small of his back, then around to the front. Syd unbuttons, unzips, and pushes the denim over Taehyun’s hips, then his underwear—a green plaid pair that Syd finds ridiculously cute. Taehyun shifts, a little nervous, the way he always does when he’s naked in front of Syd. But Syd just drinks him in, almost worshipful. He lifts his hips, wrangling his own jeans and boxer shorts down his legs.

Syd snaps open the bottle of lube and gets his fingers wet. He eases two fingers inside of Taehyun, opening him up, and Taehyun makes a hungry noise behind closed lips, his arms wrapped around Syd’s neck. Taehyun’s thighs are shaking, his hips rocking into Syd’s hand. Just for the hell of it, Syd curls his free hand around Taehyun’s cock. His thumb traces the thick vein on the underside, follows it like a roadmap to the flushed, spongy head. Taehyun moans at his ear, and now Syd’s shivering too. 

“Okay, just a sec…” Syd stops teasing Taehyun’s dick, and uses his free hand to get the condom ready. He has to do it himself; there’s no guarantee he won’t blow his load if Taehyun wraps it up for him. When he’s slick and ready, he says, “Okay, here goes.” 

His palms are hot and slippery on Taehyun’s hips, guiding him down as his own hips rise to meet Taehyun. Then he’s sliding up and into him with care, and Taehyun actually squeals, grabbing onto Syd’s shoulders like he needs to hold onto something or he’ll float away. “You’re good, you’re good,” Syd tells him, because he’s all the way inside, and Taehyun feels so fucking _heavenly_. 

Taehyun takes a moment to get used to the stretch, to the overwhelming fullness, but once he does he is desperate, grinding in Syd’s lap. Syd has his hands full of Taehyun’s ass, his own hips trying to match the pace of Taehyun’s rise and fall. They are young and horny and smitten, and this turns the act of fucking into making love, a journey of touches and sensations rather than a race to the finish. 

Taehyun is breathing Syd’s name against his collarbone, at his ear, over his lips, and combined with the frantic build of sensation it feels like worship. Syd has never felt anything like this, not even in the backseat with Carrie; here, every sensation is remarkable: the tight grip around his cock, Taehyun’s mouth slick and red and panting, “More, more, please,” the slip and slide as they move together. Syd’s so close he can almost feel the pluck of release, and he tips his head back against the couch, primed and ready to fucking _explode_. 

The slow burn simmering somewhere between them bursts into flame. Taehyun heaves a shaky groan at Syd’s ear, clutching onto Syd as his climax takes him higher and higher. Syd arches up and into him, taking it all, and they ascend together. 

When it’s over, and the clouds have cleared from Syd’s head, he sighs a long, satisfied, “ _Fuck_.”

Taehyun giggles. His face is flushed and beaded with sweat, damp strands of hair plastered to his forehead. “I can’t believe we did it,” he says, breathless.

Syd finds Taehyun’s cock, wilting and pliable in his grasp. Syd thumbs over the head—gently, so gently, as he hears the shaky edge of apprehension in Taehyun’s sighs—offering soft little brushes of fingers and tender squeezes through the comedown. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“I do, actually. I read your journal.”

“You’re never gonna let me forget that, are you?”

“Nope.” Taehyun grins.

* * *

Syd’s Journal - January 1st, 1999

_This has been a helluva year for me. If someone told me a year ago that I would be happy, in love, and having friends, I would have laughed and told them to go fuck themselves. But it’s really happened! Tae makes me so goddamn happy I could explode. So many new feelings are expanding and coming alive inside me. Even knowing he’ll have to leave for two years doesn’t scare me as much as it used to. It’s gonna suck hard but we can email and write letters and maybe talk on the phone, so maybe it won’t be so bad. And the reunion sex will be amazing, heh heh… _

_For New Year’s Eve we drank a lot, and later Tae pounded my ass so good I’m still fucking jizzing. GAWD. No wonder adults are so obsessed with teaching teenagers about abstinence; if we know how fucking good sex is, fuck yeah we’ll do it ALL the time! Wish I didn’t have to use a condom though, so I could cum inside him. Maybe if I can get an HIV test without my mom finding out… I guess she wouldn’t be too upset about that, since she made such a big deal about giving me the sex talk. Oh well, it’s late and I’m tired. _


	6. Stray Bullet (January- February 1999)

_“My dark secrets are life threatening. Pockets of unhappiness set in aspic that build and build. I have this primitive feeling that if something good happens, it is going to be followed by something bad. There is always a price to pay.”_ \- Sue Townsend

* * *

_January 2nd, 1999_

It’s a chilly overcast morning in Denver, and Syd is sitting in the back of Reb’s car. Derek takes up the passenger seat while Reb drives them toward a mountain range about an hour south of Denver. Derek called Syd earlier this morning over breakfast.

“Dude, Reb and I got some sick-ass guns,” Derek said. “We’re gonna go test-fire ‘em. Wanna come?”

Syd said yes; since it’s winter break, he’s not keeping to his hard and fast rule of weekends being strictly for Taehyun. Taehyun didn’t seem to mind either, clearly uninterested in the prospect of coming along.

The handheld video camera takes up the seat beside Syd. “You guys filming another movie?”

Derek turns in his seat to look back at him. “Yeah, I wanna do a found footage sort of thing, like _Cannibal Holocaust_ and _Man Bites Dog_. Maybe with some documentary elements too.”

“What’s the idea?”

“Okay, so, there’s this serial killer, right? And he records all his kills on tape, but he’s never been caught. And the movie will be like one of those crime shows where they interview a bunch of people and talk about who the killer might be, why he’s doing it, y’know, stuff like that. And it’s cut together with footage from the tapes that were found in some old abandoned building.”

“Sounds fucking awesome,” Syd says. “Do we ever find out who the killer is?”

“Now where’s the fun in that?” Reb chimes in. “Unmasking the killer always takes the wind out of a movie’s sails.”

Syd isn’t so sure about that. Sometimes a villain reveal can be done well; _Sleepaway Camp_ and _Scream_ come to mind. “So how are you gonna film the scenes where he kills people? Just put him in a mask?”

Derek makes a thinking noise. “I don’t know. Masks seem so fucking corny. I might have to play around with camera angles to keep his face out of the shots. Well, both of them, actually. There’s two killers, though one is more of a ringleader and the other is kind of his lackey.”

“Like Leonard Lake and Charles Ng?” 

Reb and Derek laugh; they’re the two people who most appreciate Syd’s morbid references and knowledge thereof. Taehyun either doesn’t know what Syd’s referring to, or doesn’t share the humor. “Right down to the video tapes,” Derek says. 

The mountain range is located in Pike National Forest, so there are plenty of trees. Reb parks the car and retrieves the weapons from the trunk. Derek grabs the video camera. Syd follows them, unsure of what role he’s supposed to play here. Reb tosses him a pistol; Syd catches it, nearly fumbling. “You know how to shoot?” Reb asks.

Syd isn’t as confident with his answer as he was when Taehyun asked the same question. “A little.”

“It’s not hard. Just aim and squeeze the trigger. Squeeze, not pull,” Reb says. “Everybody gets that wrong.”

Syd nods. Derek opens the boxes of ammo in the trunk and hands out ammunition. Syd loads his pistol while Reb feeds shells into a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun. There’s another shotgun in the trunk, presumably Derek’s, but his hands are occupied with the camera for now. 

As they walk to an even more secluded part of the range, Syd asks, “So, uh, where’d you guys get these?”

“We went to the gun show last month,” Derek says, taking pride in the fact that he’s eighteen and legally able to purchase weapons. “I busted my ass for that shotgun.”

“The rest are mine,” Reb says, equally boastful. “That nine-mil you got is from my personal collection. This baby right here”—he hoists the shotgun in a way that showcases its glory—”is all new.”

“Well, new for him,” Derek says. “We couldn’t afford anything state-of-the-art. The shotguns are both around thirty years old.”

“Cool. Vintage,” Syd says, at a loss for anything more intelligent to say. He had a brief gun phase when he was fifteen, reading all the firearm magazines he could get his hands on, but his fascination quickly wore off when he realized he couldn’t actually _do_ anything with them even if he owned one. Now, a Pentium II Xeon 400 processor, on the other hand—there’s something he can sink his proverbial teeth into. “Are you guys into old weapons or something? Why not just go to a gun store and get something new?”

“Gun shows have private sellers who don’t run background checks,” Reb says, like Syd is a moron for even asking. “They don’t record the sale or ask for ID either.”

Syd wonders why Reb would want to skirt those sorts of regulations, but he knows enough not to ask aloud.

Derek begins to film them while they fire at tree trunks. The shotgun belches loud, cracking explosions with each bullet. Reb seems less concerned with accuracy, trying from-the-hip and long-range shots. The sawed-off barrel means more recoil, and Reb’s shots go wild. Syd, using the sight on the end of the pistol barrel, aims for tree trunks, large branches, anything to test his skills. He fires five times, each hitting its target or barely skirting it. 

“You’re not a bad shot,” Reb says with a hint of admiration. “I thought you didn’t know how to shoot.”

“I’m rusty,” Syd says. “But I guess it’s like riding a bike.”

“Try hitting the broad side of a barn with this.” Reb exchanges weapons, giving Syd the shotgun. The sight is gone, sawed off with most of the barrel. Syd wraps his hand around the too-short barrel, his fingers millimeters away from the muzzle.

“Jesus. Why would you saw off this much?” He looks at Reb, and his gaze is drawn to a smear of red on Reb’s right hand. “You’re fucking bleeding.”

Reb raises his hand to his face, as if noticing the blood for the first time. “Shit.” He laughs. “Look at that.”

All too often Syd feels like a stupid kid around these two—the goofy sixteen-year-old who can’t even buy cigarettes—but in this moment he feels like the lone adult. Any gun nut worth their salt knows you don’t saw off this much of a barrel without substantial recoil. “I won’t be able to hit anything from this distance without a sight,” he says.

“Let me try, you pussy.” Derek intervenes, swapping the camera for the shotgun. Syd steps back, giving him a wide berth, and keeps the camera rolling. Derek fires a shot that disappears into the trees. The recoil jerks his arms back, and he lets out a whooping cheer. “Holy shit! That’s awesome!”

“You didn’t hit anything,” Syd says. “Set up some tin cans and we’ll have something to cheer about.”

“I brought a bowling pin,” Derek reminds Reb. “Let’s try that.”

While Reb heads back to the car to retrieve the target, Syd films the wounds on Derek’s hands from firing the gun. “Look at this shit,” Derek laughs, holding a chapped, bleeding hand up to the lens. “Nearly broke my fucking wrist.”

“That’ll happen,” Syd says. Why does he have a sinking feeling one of them is going to end up in the hospital by sundown?

Reb returns with the bowling pin. “I stole this from bowling class,” Derek says. “Since you’re such a hotshot, why don’t you set it up?” He takes back the camera and shoves the bowling pin at Syd. 

Syd jogs down the slight incline and heads through the clearing. There’s a line of trees about twenty-five yards away, and Syd intends to set the pin there. As he walks, he experiences a sudden seizure of anxiety that makes him freeze. There’s really nothing stopping either Derek or Reb from simply shooting him out here, is there? They’re far enough out that the shots won’t be heard, at least. The question that remains is: why would they? 

_The same reasons they sawed the barrels of their guns so short,_ Syd thinks _. Because they can. Because they think it would be cool. Because they’re foolish._

He glances over his shoulder, expecting to find the two of them staring at him, but they’re caught up in conversation, paying Syd no mind. This lack of attention eases some of Syd’s worry, but not all. He wills himself to keep walking, aware that a moving target is harder to hit—and hoping Reb and Derek haven’t adapted to the outlandish recoil of the shotgun. The pistol, however…

All of this is ridiculous, right? First and foremost, these are his friends, and he ought to feel guilty about suspecting them of such a thing. But even if Reb and Derek _are_ harboring those dark urges, they wouldn’t kill Syd, especially not after leaving a trail. Syd’s mother knows he’s out with them, so they’ll be the first people under suspicion if Syd fails to return home. A search of the mountain range will likely turn up some sort of blood evidence that Syd was attacked. Reb and Derek won’t get away with it, especially if they’re pitted against each other in a battle for the best plea deal.

_Maybe they don’t care about that. Maybe they’re not even thinking about what comes after. Who does, really, when you’re young and leaning on the future to bail you out?_

Syd sets the pin between two trees and whirls around to catch sight of the two gunmen. Derek gives him a brief glance, as if confirming Syd is there, and turns his body back to Reb. Syd hurries through the clearing and up the slope, unable to shake the feeling that he has narrowly avoided _something_.

Derek goes first, using the shotgun to fire three blasts before finally landing a bullseye on the bowling pin. “Fuck yes!” He elbows Syd. “Go get it. I wanna see the entry and exit wounds on that bitch.”

“I set it up,” Syd argues. The last thing he wants to do now is put himself in the line of fire again. “Have Reb get it.”

“Fine with me.” Reb jogs down the slope and across the clearing.

While they wait, Derek turns to Syd, wearing an expression of deadly glee. “How come your _boyfriend_ doesn’t like us?”

Syd feels like he’s been slapped. He wants to defend Taehyun, but he knows he needs to tread carefully. “You mean Taehyun? He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Don’t be stupid, Syd. It’s not a good look for you.”

Syd feels an upsurge of panic, his mind recalling any time when his public camaraderie with Taehyun might have crossed the line into something boys don’t do with each other out in the open. There’s no way Derek could know, is there? The only person who’s seen them in an indisputably gay situation is Jesse. His heart sinks, knowing Jesse wouldn’t be able to stand against Derek’s cold intimidation.

Derek, watching Syd’s frantic calculations, laughs and slaps him on the shoulder. “Relax. I don’t give a shit if you’re fucking him. A hole’s a hole, right? I’m just curious why he doesn’t like us.”

“He doesn’t _not_ like you. He’s just… not into the blood and guts stuff.”

Derek spreads his hands. “So… what the fuck?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Why do you hang out with a fucking normie?”

Not only is this an attack on Taehyun’s character, but Syd feels personally offended as well, like his own identity is being called into question. Just because Syd likes gore and death and macabre shit doesn’t mean he can’t be friends with someone who likes cute Sanrio characters and Disney movies. “You know, you _can_ be friends with someone and not be into all the same shit.” 

On some level, Syd suspects Derek is jealous of Syd’s ability to befriend a so-called “normie.” How strange and outcast can a person truly be, if they can find companionship with someone who has no trouble fitting in? Taehyun’s kind nature has earned him a handful of “normie” friends at school, ranging from the math whiz geeks to the bookish girls on the yearbook staff. Derek, on the other hand, has dismissed every single one of them at some point, taking harsh digs at someone’s acne or another kid’s braces. 

Syd has a terrible suspicion that, had he not made a spectacle out of his rebellion against Mears and Bowers, he would be equally dismissed by the Rebels—or at least by Derek himself. 

He’s thankful the conversation is cut short when Reb returns with the bowling pin. There’s a huge hole in the center of the pin, made when Derek’s shotgun finally found its target. “Sweet!” Derek laughs. “Imagine that in someone’s fucking brain.”

Syd does, and he shivers.

* * *

Syd’s Journal - January 17th, 1999

_Me and Tae went to the mall today. I got some new stud skull earrings and some mini-hoops with safety pins and barbed wire. They look fuckin’ sweet. Tae saw a set he liked, and I jokingly suggested he should get his ears pierced. He was actually down for it. So we went to Claire’s and got it done. I think he wanted to look tough for me. What a cute lil’ fucker._

* * *

Syd’s Journal - February 17th, 1999

_Helluva busy week! So Valentine’s Day was Sunday. I took Tae to a sushi + Korean place near the University. It really doesn’t take much to make him happy. Or I guess it really is the thought that counts. While we ate, he talked about the upcoming Lunar New Year holidays. Like_ Chuseok _, it’s a family-centric holiday, which makes me feel bad that we can’t send him home for a week or so. But Mom doesn’t have the money for a two-way ticket to Seoul, so we talked about how to celebrate_ Seollal _here. That night he rode my cock so hard I think I blacked out when I came._

_Monday was_ Seollal _. After school, we went to King Soopers and the local Asian market for stuff to cook. Taehyun made a special soup that he claims turns you one year older on Lunar New Year. He keeps trying to get a year up on me. :-P I helped him make the_ jeon _pancakes again, like we had on_ Chuseok _. The main meal is_ bibimbap, _basically a rice bowl with veggies, meat, and a fried egg on top. He’s a great cook. I guess he comes by it honestly, since his dad owns a restaurant._

_I let him use the computer most of the night. He played some of my new_ Doom _levels, and I showed him how to make one of his own. He’s slow and meticulous, but not because he’s stupid. He’d rather get things right the first time than learn through making dumb mistakes like me. :-P_

_Tuesday is the day after_ Seollal, _which I guess is like the day after Thanksgiving for Koreans. We ate leftovers and worked on Tae’s_ Doom _level. It’s pretty cool, though he’s a bit of a hypocrite; he called me weird for making a_ Doom _map of our school, but his map is Disney World. Maybe my madness is contagious. Ha ha!_


	7. Torture (March 1999)

_"Of all the animals, man is the only one that is cruel. He is the only one that inflicts pain for the pleasure of doing it.”_ \- Mark Twain, “What Is Man? and Other Philosophical Writings”

* * *

_March 11th, 1999_

It’s Thursday afternoon, and spring break has officially begun. The corridors of the school are filled with the bodies of rushing teens escaping their classrooms, each one eager to begin their break as soon as possible. Syd and Taehyun don’t run like the others, preferring a leisurely stroll to their lockers. “A whole week with no school,” Syd says dreamily, leaning against his locker in a half-swoon. “Got any plans?”

Taehyun deposits his Psychology book into his locker. “Are we ever going to go to the water park?”

Syd laughs. Taehyun mentioned going there months ago when he first arrived, but Syd was too caught up in hiding his crush to consider the idea. “I’d say yes if they were open. Let’s save that for summer.”

“No good concerts coming this week,” Taehyun says, dejected.

“Manson’ll come before the end of the school year,” Syd reminds him. 

Taehyun shuts his locker with a groan. “I can’t wait that long!”

“We might be thinking too big,” Syd says, scrambling to put his books away and get this vacation rolling. “Most people head to the beach for spring break. We could do that, if we had money.”

“Which we don’t.”

“Thank you for reminding me. But while everyone our age is hanging out on the coasts of California and Florida, _we_ can enjoy all the sights of downtown Denver.”

“You sound like you’re trying to sell me a time-share,” Taehyun says, and Syd laughs. 

Someone’s calling to them from down the hall. “Hey, guys!” It’s Derek, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He jogs to catch up with them. “Glad I caught you. I wanna film a few scenes for my movie. Are you in?” He doesn’t bother looking at Taehyun, and this silent act of omission annoys Syd.

“I guess I could…” Syd glances at Taehyun, seeking approval. It’s a Thursday, so according to the rules it’s their day together after school.

Derek watches this interaction and chuckles. “You need permission from the ol’ ball and chain?”

Taehyun frowns; either he’s confused by the term, or he takes offense to it.

Syd decides he’s not going to be embarrassed. “Considering he’s not allowed to drive and I’m his ride home? Yeah, I kinda do. Where do I meet you?”

“Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel.” Meaning Reb’s apartment, their usual hangout after school.

Syd tells Derek he’ll be there and escorts Taehyun to the parking lot. Almost half the cars in the junior lot are already gone. They get inside the Honda Prelude, and Syd gets the stereo going. Rammstein’s album _Sehnsucht_ picks up on the track where it left off: “Engel.” It’s one of Syd’s favorites, and Taehyun likes it too, though they never bicker over music anyway. 

“Derek doesn’t want me in the movie?” Taehyun asks after a minute or two, sounding forlorn. He was in a prior video project of Derek’s—the paintball war mockumentary—so it would make sense if he were at least asked for future roles.

“He never mentioned it to you?”

Taehyun shakes his head. “Is it my English? I know I still have an accent, and I speak too slowly sometimes, but—”

“No, your English is great, dude. Better than most of the idiots at our school who were born and raised here. I guess he didn’t ask because the movie has a lot of gore in it, and he knows you don’t like that stuff.”

“It’s all fake…” Taehyun gives a shrug. “I wouldn’t mind so much. I just like to be invited when you guys do things, I guess. Even if I end up saying no.”

Syd’s heart sinks, recalling what Derek said about him at the firing range: _Why do you hang out with a fucking normie?_

“Well, if it means anything, Carrie and Jesse think you’re cool. It’s just Derek who’s a bit of a dick. And Reb, I don’t know. Do you _want_ to be friends with a weird older guy? You accused him of being a cult leader back when we first met him.”

“I did.” Taehyun chuckles at the memory. “It’s not a big deal, not being in the movie. I just don’t want to lose you.” His voice tapers toward the end, like he’s embarrassed to say it out loud. 

“Never gonna happen,” Syd promises. 

He drops Taehyun off at home and drives to Reb’s apartment. When he gets inside, Reb is there, along with Derek, who’s setting the camera on a tripod in the bedroom. “Where’s the rest of your crew?” Syd asks. 

“We’re a skeleton crew,” Derek says. “Jesse’s coming by a little later.”

“What scene are we filming?” Syd asks. “I don’t even know my lines.”

“Don’t worry, improv will be good here.” Derek leads him into the bedroom. The bed is covered with a clear shower liner, presumably to keep the fake blood from staining the sheets. On top of a bureau are fake knives, needles, and blood squibs. A water bottle filled with corn syrup blood sits beside the tools. “So this is a scene from one of the killers’ tapes. You’re a victim they’ve drugged and abducted. All you need to do is scream and sound scared.”

“Okay, cool.”

“You’re gonna be tied up,” Reb says, pointing to the thick ropes knotted around each of the four mahogany bedposts. “Get on the bed and we’ll get you strapped in.”

_This is so cool_ , Syd thinks, climbing onto the bed, ready to do his part in making a film as gross as _Guinea Pig 2_ or _Dead Alive_. But it’s also a little scary, and a small part of his brain doesn’t like admitting that, even to himself. He lies on the bed; Reb ties Syd’s wrists, while Derek works on his ankles, slipping off Syd’s Converse sneakers to make the task easier. Syd tests his restraints. They’re tight, almost uncomfortably so.

“Should this be so tight?”

“Can’t have you thrashing around and getting loose. It’d ruin the shot,” Reb says.

“And you can tell when actors are faking being restrained,” Derek adds. “We want this to look real, y’know?”

“What about the screaming? Aren’t your neighbors going to be concerned?”

“I told them I’m making a horror movie,” Reb says. “And most of them are illegals who need cops around like they need a hole in the head. But noise won’t be too much of a problem anyway.” Reb takes a rag out of his back pocket and crushes it into a wad. “Open up.” 

Syd hesitates, saying, “I hope that’s clean,” before getting the rag shoved into his open mouth. It almost makes him gag, but he’s grateful Reb isn’t duct-taping his mouth, at least. A pang of fear floats up within Syd, the same sort of dread he felt at the firing range. 

Derek walks over to the camera and presses a few buttons. “Okay, we’re rolling.” The camera is set up to film from behind their backs, low enough to obscure their faces. He steps away and moves towards the bureau of torture implements. He takes a knife and a long squib packet, concealing the squib in a fist. 

“Wake up.” Reb takes a glass of water from the night table and dumps it over Syd’s face. Syd chokes, sputters, the cold water shocking his senses. Then there’s a weight on his stomach, as Derek straddles his middle. Derek lays the squib against Syd’s throat, like a long line of red licorice, and carefully draws the knife across it. The knife slices through the thin plastic of the squib. 

_Oh Jesus Christ, it’s real!_

Syd doesn’t dare breathe, fearful that any slight movement of his throat will jar the knife and send it plunging into his jugular. 

“Scream,” Derek whispers, and Syd manages a half-hearted groan through the rag in his mouth when the fake blood trickles over his neck. “Do better.” Derek traces the blade across the line of Syd’s jaw. That gets him screaming, and Derek grins. 

Reb, meanwhile, moves for the tool tray. Derek is ghosting the knife feather-light against Syd’s jawline, his throat, the shell of his ear. Syd doesn’t need to fake his screams now. Reb grabs a few items from the tray and comes back. He drags Syd’s T-shirt up, exposing his stomach. In a motion so swift Syd wouldn’t know it was rehearsed even if he’d been told ahead of time, Reb raises a knife in the air like Michael Myers in Halloween and stabs it downward, right into Syd’s stomach. Syd screams, certain he’s been stabbed despite feeling no pain. The thoughts in his head become panicked yelling.

Dark red corn syrup oozes down Syd’s side, the cleverly-placed squib obscured by Reb’s hand. Reb popped it like a tiny water balloon, his aim impeccable (or, perhaps, lucky). 

Syd’s breathing heavily now, and a few frantic jerks at his restraints prove they’re impossibly tight. Derek laughs. “That’s the spirit!” He fake-jabs the knife at Syd, and Syd jerks again, twisting out of the way. If he’d been a half-second slower, that knife might be in his cheek right now.

With dawning dismay, Syd understands this whole ordeal may have been a fatal mistake. He recalls the feeling of terror he had at the firing range, when he was certain one of these two lunatics was going to shoot him. Why would such a thought ever cross his mind if the intention hadn’t been there, even if only for the briefest moment? Of course, they hadn’t shot him then, but that had been part of the game, right?

_Maybe they were waiting for the perfect moment_ , a voice in Syd’s head—the voice of reason, maybe—tells him. _A moment like right now, when you’re tied to the bedposts and completely at their mercy. This isn’t a movie anymore, kid. This is just torture, plain and simple._

Syd shouts muffled words behind his gag. Derek plucks the rag from his mouth with long, almost dainty fingers. “Speak up,” he teases. “Can’t hear you.”

“I—I don’t want to do this anymore,” Syd rasps. _I don’t feel safe_ , he wants to say. “I’m done.”

Derek jabs the tip of the knife against the fleshy underside of Syd’s chin, and Syd feels the slightest prick. “The director calls the shots around here, and that happens to be me. You’re not going anywhere until we’re done.”

“I mean it,” Syd says, finding his stern voice, the one he used to level death threats against Mears and Bowers that fateful day. “Untie me and let me go. This is stupid.”

“And if I don’t?”

Syd doesn’t have a comeback for that one; his options are limited, him being tied up and all. “I’ll scream.”

“Told you,” Reb says. “No one’s gonna care.”

“Then I’ll keep screaming until I’m fucking hoarse. _Someone_ will come, even if it’s just to shut me up.”

“You think we won’t shut you up first?” Derek tries to stick the rag back into Syd’s mouth, but Syd turns his head and keeps his teeth clenched tight, like a child trying to avoid a spoonful of mashed carrots and peas. 

Fed up with Syd’s petulance, Derek jabs the knife into Syd’s shoulder. It’s a light stab, maybe only an inch’s worth of blade, but it’s enough to make Syd yelp in pain. Derek jams the rag into his open mouth, and Syd thrashes against his restraints. His shoulder screams and aches, and he can feel the hot sticky mess of real blood dribbling out. “You’re going to let us do what we want, or we’ll fucking kill you. Got it?” 

_He really means it_ , Syd understands, horror washing over him. He manages to nod, whimpering when Derek slides the knife out of his flesh. There’s a stinging, twitching sensation, made worse by the way Syd’s muscles are strained by the ropes.

Reb goes back to the bureau again to grab something. Syd’s focus stays on the knife in Derek’s hand—a knife which now has his blood on it. Seeing his own reflection in that blade, seeing himself tied up and completely vulnerable, terrifies Syd like nothing ever has.

Reb returns with another short length of rope, and Syd thinks it’s going to wrap around his face to keep the rag in place, but then Reb’s nudging Derek aside and taking his place on top of Syd, and Syd’s bucking against his bindings as Reb loops the rope around his neck. 

He screams behind the gag, but it’s useless—stupid, really, to use the last of his remaining oxygen on a scream no one will hear. The world goes grey at the edges, and even as Syd chokes he knows this will not be the end.

* * *

He swims up from the dark, unaware of how much time has passed. Light peeks in around the edges of the drawn curtains. He’s faintly aware of something wrapped around his mouth. The rope, of course, to keep the gag from falling out. Reb and Derek are standing by the camera arguing about something. Syd lies limp on the bed, playing dead, and listens.

“If we do it, we have to turn the camera off,” Reb’s saying in a low, serious voice. 

Derek laughs. “You’re such a fucking pussy.”

“You know what would happen to me in prison if this goes on tape? No way.”

“Then we’ll just record my turn.”

Reb exhales an angry breath, the way a bull does before the charge. “ _No,_ Derek.” Syd has never heard Reb sound so serious. “He’s sixteen.”

“Fine. I’m turning the camera off. And I’m even putting the lens cap on. Happy?”

A cold chill sweeps through Syd. Derek doesn’t _care_ if whatever happens is on film. This isn’t about the movie anymore. All of this is purely to satisfy some complex lust inside of him.

Reb grunts what Syd assumes is a sound of acquiescence.

Syd hears footsteps coming closer, then feels a dip in the mattress between his spread legs, as though someone has leapt there. The old mattress creaks, and the plastic liner crinkles. “Wake up,” Derek says, smacking the flat of his hand against Syd’s cheek. Syd’s head rolls to the side. “We’re just getting started.”

Syd opens his eyes. No use in playing possum now. Derek is on his knees, positioned between Syd’s legs. A leer of a smirk plays on his lips, his thick eyebrows drawn downward. Syd imagines taking a pair of tweezers to those awful things. Funny where the mind goes sometimes. 

Derek lays his hands against Syd’s thighs, making him squirm. “C’mon, don’t fight. You’ll like this part. You’ve taken it up the ass at least once, right?”

_God oh God oh God,_ Syd’s mind sobs. He’s almost surprised he hadn’t considered they would rape him until now. Derek always seemed so staunchly homophobic; then again, Syd also never imagined Derek would do any of this shit, so maybe his ability to judge character is compromised.

_You know what would happen to me in prison if this goes on tape_ , Reb said, and Syd laughs now, the sound smothered behind the gag. So torture and possibly murder are fine, but raping a minor is a step too far? For the first time, Syd grasps the breadth of these two’s mutual insanity.

After that, things happen quickly, which Syd is grateful for, if he can indeed be grateful for anything in this situation. He is vaguely aware of sensations—his jeans and undershorts pulled down to his ankles, the clench of fingers around his thighs, a long, blunt thing pushing in and out of him, Derek’s dry and rapid breathing—but his mind is a million miles away.

Right now, his mother is probably reheating the lamb strips from last night’s gyros, and Taehyun is likely helping her assemble the wraps, and they will sit down to dinner and talk about spring break, and all the while Syd is in this shitty apartment being raped. Syd thrashes against his restraints, against the goddamn injustice of it all, and Derek whoops laughter.

“I told you you’d like this part!” Derek cackles, interpreting Syd’s rage as excitement, as if he is a willing participant eager to get his rocks off. Another vague sensation: Syd is hard. Of course. The cherry on this shit sundae. All Syd can do is bite the gag in his mouth, as if it’s Derek’s dick, and wait until the ride is over. He comes, gritting his teeth, hating every second. “You slut! You love this!” Derek cheers him on until he’s spent.

In another small miracle, Derek used a condom—”I’m not taking any chances with a queer like you”—and Syd has never been more thankful for homophobia and the STD shock images from health class. He might actually die if Derek jizzed inside of him, especially before Taehyun got to do the deed.

Syd’s entire body aches, but the pain from his pelvis down is monstrous. He feels torn open, in a way he never felt even after his first time getting fucked by Taehyun—but that was gentle, and Taehyun used his fingers first until Syd was stretched and begging for it.

Derek vaults over the baseboard and pulls up his jeans. “Your turn,” he says to Reb. “I got him ready for you.”

It doesn’t get easier the second time around. Syd thought his body might go loose in surrender, but he’s even tighter than before, as though his inner muscles are bracing for another attack. Even with lube, Reb might as well be shoving a battering ram into a mousehole, and each failed attempt just makes him angrier, his hands crushing purple, finger-shaped bruises into Syd’s pale legs. “So you’ll open up for him but not me?” Reb sneers, and behind the gag Syd is wordless, just a collection of anguished noises. 

_Just close your eyes and pretend he’s Taehyun,_ a voice inside speaks up. _Get through it somehow._

Does Syd even _want_ to think about Taehyun in a moment like this? Sweet, gentle, kind Taehyun is nothing like the violent lunatic raping him, and it feels almost blasphemous to associate the two in any capacity. But this seems like a trench warfare situation, something to just _survive_ by any means necessary, and Syd finds his mind lapsing, a fracture of consciousness that allows him to be far away from here, where none of this awful business can reach him.

Taehyun is there, on the couch in the basement with Syd, and they’re smoking out of Syd’s bong, the cloying smoke wrapping around them like tendrils

( _holy fuck you’re tight, kid)_

and Taehyun’s kissing him with hazy lips, his hand shoved down the front of Syd’s jeans, his fingers squeezing and tugging

( _you better come for me too, no picking favorites)_

and Syd’s gazing at him, memorizing every detail on his perfect face: the dimples on his cheeks, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, his flawless, blemish-free skin

( _shitfuckfuckahhhhh)_

and Taehyun smooths Syd’s hair away from his face, gazing at him with admiration that makes Syd’s heart do somersaults, and while he’s vaguely aware of a white-hot nova of pain down below, it barely registers, his brain caught in the staggering grasp of self-preservation.

* * *

Syd floats through the next chunk of time, letting the haze coat his brain like snowflakes on a windshield. Through the closed bedroom door, he hears Jesse’s voice, then Reb and Derek saying something. 

Reb comes into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Syd thinks he hears the front door to the apartment open and close. Derek, it seems, has business to tend to, and he’s sent his lackey to make sure Syd doesn’t try to escape.

Reb approaches Syd as though he’s a rabid dog who might bite. He unties the rope around Syd’s mouth, and Syd slowly works the rag free. “Don’t get any smart ideas about screaming,” Reb reminds him. He goes over to the camera, removing the lens cap and pressing a few buttons. Then he sits in a chair facing the foot of the bed, which obscures his face from the camera.

Syd has a feeling Reb wants him to talk, so he does. His throat is parched, and the words take a moment to come out, but he doesn’t want to start things off with a plea. “Derek’s gone?”

Reb nods. “He and Jesse have a little errand to run.”

“What’s that?”

Reb hesitates, like he isn’t sure whether to reveal this information, but decides to go for it. “Jesse’s driving your car to the nearest dump. Derek’s there to make sure the job gets done. I imagine your _mommy’s_ gonna start wondering where you are pretty soon. Can’t have your car parked out front now, can we?”

For a moment, Syd considers chasing the mother angle, but it probably doesn’t mean anything. There is a more pressing question at hand. “Why me?”

“You’d prefer someone else tied up there?”

Right now Syd certainly would, but he knows the universe would enact some cruel karma and make the new victim someone he actually cares about. “I thought we were friends, dude.”

Reb scoffs and shakes his head. The dark roots of his hair are beginning to grow in, making the orange dyejob look even tackier. “I’m gonna let you in on a little secret.” He leans forward in the chair, the wicker creaking as his weight shifts. “Nobody is anyone’s friend. Not really. All of us only matter based on what we can provide for other people. Your mom only matters to you because she puts food on the table and a roof over your head. Your chink boyfriend is just a hole for you to fuck. Me and Derek make you feel good about yourself, like you _belong_ or some shit. If anyone else had offered to be your friend, you would’ve joined up with them.”

How dare this smug, nihilistic asshole presume to know how Syd feels about anyone, let alone his mother and Taehyun? Among the terror and bewilderment, a new emotion surfaces: rage.

“What about Jesse and Carrie?” Syd sneers. “What am I getting from them, if you’ve got everything figured out?”

“Carrie’s the only girl who’s ever shown you any attention. And Jesse, well, he’s a pussy. A total pushover. You’ve never had any power in your life, but you can get him to do pretty much anything.”

_Except launder his own bedding_ , Syd thinks, recalling the Halloween party. He looks at the window, which is covered by ratty plaid curtains. The sun is beginning to set, judging by the reddish-gold light leaking in. 

“Alright. Fair enough,” Syd says, deciding to buy into the insanity and see where it takes him. “So all of us are just _things_ for you to use?” _Didn’t he just use you right up?_ Syd’s inner voice reminds him, and the thought lights a hot spark in his belly. “Does that mean you’re going to kill Derek too?”

“No, ‘cause Derek fucking _gets it_. We have self-awareness. We see how fucked-up and hypocritical the world is.”

“So do I. We’re all on the same side here, Reb, whether you believe me or not. And if your bullshit nihilism outlook holds true, that means Derek’s using you too.”

Reb’s gaze turns to ice. “Maybe, maybe not. But if that’s so, you’re getting used and abused by your boy, too.”

Syd thinks of Taehyun returning to Korea for his military service, spending two years away and eventually losing the passion they have now. While he doesn’t suspect Taehyun would intentionally hurt him, the passage of time and the inevitability of change almost guarantees his feelings for Syd will undergo a transformation, likely not for the better. 

Syd pushes those thoughts away. “We’re not talking about me or Taehyun.” Saying his name in this room turned torture chamber feels like blaspheming in a church. “If you’re going to kill me, it’s only fair I know why.”

Reb laughs. “We’re not gonna kill you, dipshit. We’ll have our fun with you for a while, and you’re not gonna like it, but hey, a couple doses of sodium pentothal and you won’t even remember any of this. Worst case, you’ll think it was just a fucked-up dream.”

So they intend to let him live, then. Depending on what else they have planned for him, that could be a blessing or a curse. The police might shrug off a temporary disappearance as the consequences of a bad drug trip, but if Syd comes back from said trip missing an arm or a leg, the signs of foul play will be hard to ignore. Reb might talk a big game, but if he and Derek intend to let Syd live, they can’t inflict too much damage.

_But do you really think they’re smart enough to avoid arteries when they’re jabbing at you with knives? Or that they won’t develop a curiosity that can only be satisfied by a sloppy amputation?_

“Why me?” Syd asks again.

“You volunteered,” Reb says, like Syd’s an idiot for even asking. He rises from the chair and turns off the camera before heading out the door.

When the bedroom door is closed, Syd gives the ropes an experimental tug. The crux of the knots wedge against the bone and tendons of his wrists and ankles. The ropes are sturdy enough that only the Incredible Hulk could pull them apart like taffy. Syd cranes his neck to look at the ropes binding his wrists. These are no shoelace bows; the knots are intricate and complex. Sailor’s knots, Syd guesses. He never learned how to tie anything more intricate than his own shoelaces, and even when he went fishing with Wade, his father always tied the line for him. Although even a master’s degree in knot-tying wouldn’t help him _un_ tie them, not when his own hands are bound. 

There are knots on his wrists and ankles, as well as the headboard posts themselves. He can pull and tug and yank until his wrists break, but the knots won’t budge. He glances around the room, searching for anything he can use to whittle down the thick fibers in the ropes. But even if there were a glass or a knife on the night table (which is placed out of reach anyway), what would he grab it with? The object would need to be in his hand to be effective, and if Reb or Derek were that stupid, they might as well just untie him and save Syd the effort. 

Syd sighs, looking up at the ceiling. He tried to build some kind of emotional rapport with Reb and failed, although if he hadn’t managed to establish any real camaraderie over the last seven months, it was likely he never would—let alone in a situation where Syd felt the pressure to shit or get off the pot, as the saying goes.

Would Derek be a safer bet? Unlikely. Derek was the one to lure him here, the first one to draw real blood, the first one to gleefully rape him. If Reb is a lost cause, Derek is even deeper in that terrible abyss. 

Jesse. If Syd can establish a bond with any of his captors, it will be Jesse. Syd has always felt Jesse is more of a goody-two-shoes than any of the Rebels. The laundry incident seemed to prove this hypothesis more than any other, showcasing Jesse’s desperation to hide any evidence of wrongdoing—or even the fact that he’d allowed such wrongdoing—from his parents. 

Syd waits. It’s not like he has anything better to do.

At some point, the sun goes down. Then he hears doors opening and closing, and Jesse’s voice again. Three voices grow closer, before the bedroom door opens. Reb, Derek, and Jesse are standing in the doorway. 

Jesse’s eyes are wide and huge. “Whoa,” he says, and Syd thinks he hears a cold awareness in Jesse’s voice, like Jesse just now realizes there is a deep depravity at play here. 

“Go on.” Derek nudges Jesse, and he stumbles forward. “Do what you want. And make sure to turn the camera on before you do it.”

Jesse flushes red. In a quiet voice, he mumbles, “I, uh, okay, just—just close the door. I don’t want you to see.”

Derek sizes him up, all too aware of Jesse’s eager-to-please nature. “Alright. But if you untie him or try to pull any shit, you’ll get the same treatment he’s getting.”

Jesse nods and makes a soft whimpering noise. Derek shuts the door, leaving the two of them alone. Jesse does not turn on the camera. Rather, he stands at the foot of the bed looking lost.

“Oh, Jesus, not you too,” Syd groans, but he knows Jesse isn’t going to do anything horrible without direct intervention from Reb or Derek. “Where’d you go before?”

It takes Jesse a moment to process Syd’s words. “Oh, Derek wanted me to drive your car out to a dump.”

Reb wasn’t lying about that, then. Not that Syd really thought he was, but confirmation of the insanity surrounding this whole situation is reassuring, at least.

“What’s going on? What are they doing?” Jesse asks.

“What _aren’t_ they doing?” Syd writhes, trying to soothe a flare of pain in his side. The muscle cramps are starting, and while the ropes have a bit of slack, it’s not enough to relieve the strain on his body. He imagines this is what it must be like to be crucified, albeit without the nails. “Don’t tell me you’re part of this too.”

“I don’t know. We’re just filming a movie, right?” Jesse sounds unsure, like he wants to be convinced this is just for show. 

Syd shakes his head, caring little about the desperation in his voice. “No, dude, we’re way past that stage! All of this is real!” 

All of what, really? Most of the blood covering Syd is fake, dyed corn syrup from the squibs Reb and Derek used before deciding to aim for realism. The small knife wound on his left shoulder didn’t bleed enough to look serious, but its dark blemish on his white T-shirt almost matches the color of the fake bloodstains. He can’t tell if there’s a ligature burn around his neck from the choking, and the rapes, well, his jeans and underwear are back around his waist where they belong.

_It doesn’t look like much at all has happened_ , Syd thinks, his stomach sinking. He doesn’t want to talk about the rapes, and even if he did, it would sound like a lie, something outlandish for the sake of shock value or emotional manipulation.

“I can’t let you go,” Jesse says, dropping his voice to a whisper, as if he suspects the others are listening through the door. “They’ll kill me.”

“Jesus, isn’t that _enough_ of a red flag? Just tell someone. Tell my mom. She’ll come over here guns a-blazing.”

“What guns? The Tec-9 she _totally_ has?” Jesse kids, and Syd hears himself laugh, amazed that Jesse remembers that stupid threat. He wishes his mother actually had a gun; he can imagine her bursting through the door and shooting up the place like Rambo.

“I don’t know, Syd,” Jesse says. “They told me they’re not gonna kill you. If I tell, maybe they _will_ kill you to hide the evidence of whatever this is.”

Syd can’t even begin to explain how stupid that sounds, but it does seem like something Reb and Derek might do if pushed. “There are fates worse than death, Jesse.”

“These are our friends, dude,” Jesse reminds him, and if Syd had a hand free he would slap him. Slapping always seems to work in old movies when someone’s gone completely irrational. “They’re not, like, psychos. I think you’re taking this a little too seriously.”

It takes all the self-control Syd has not to scream. He didn't think it possible that Jesse could be so easily brainwashed, though he supposes all the signs were there. Of course Jesse thinks these fuckers are still his friends; they haven’t choked him out and raped him—yet. 

“Listen to me,” Syd growls through his teeth. “These people are _not_ your friends. They are using you, and the second you outlive your usefulness to them, you’ll be right here with me. Derek already used you just now to dump my car.”

“He paid me twenty bucks,” Jesse says with a shrug, like there was nothing he could do.

“So you sold me out for a twenty? Good to know that’s how much I’m worth, I guess.”

“I didn’t know you were in here. And, dude, you let them tie you up, right? So this is kind of your fault, too.”

Syd pounds against his restraints. “You are such a fucking asshole!”

“Fuck you, dude! We’re supposed to be your friends, but all you do is use us for weed, fucked-up movies, parties, whatever, and then you leave and go screw your boyfriend. Reb and Derek told me how you made them drive all the way across state lines for fireworks, and how they had to set them off so you could look cool for Taehyun.”

Syd is too flabbergasted to respond. Is that the narrative among the Rebels, that Syd forced them to do any of those things? It would certainly reinforce Reb’s nihilistic worldview.

“And you came to my party just to go upstairs and fuck and smoke with him,” Jesse continues. Syd almost suggests Jesse’s real problem seems to lie with Taehyun, but he doesn’t want to give this pack of psychos (yes, he’s considering Jesse one of them now) any more ideas. “Then you throw a big fit when I ask you to wash the pot smell out of the bedding.”

“Goddamn it, fine. I get it. I’m a piece of shit, and I deserve this. Can you please do me one last favor and get me a drink of water?”

Jesse eyes him suspiciously.

“Put it in a plastic cup if you want. I can’t exactly break a glass now, can I?” Syd flaps his bound wrists for emphasis. Another cramp seizes him, and he tries to shimmy out of its clutches. “Dehydration is a hell of a way to go.”

Jesse stands there, debating whether fulfilling Syd’s request is a wise move or not, for what feels like three minutes. He leaves, and Syd hears faint conversation between the three of them before Jesse returns a minute later with a red Solo cup. “Open up,” Jesse says, and Syd does, not caring if whatever’s in the cup is water or piss. He’s parched. 

The water pours down his throat. Syd struggles to swallow and keep up with the flow without choking. He sputters twice but manages to gulp down most of the water. And thank God it’s water, though Syd doesn’t put it past Jesse to have gathered this water from the toilet bowl as a final indignity. 

Syd thanks Jesse, licking his lips for the last few drops of moisture. Jesse mutters an “uh-huh” and sets the plastic cup on the night table that’s nearby, yet still too far to reach. Near the cup is a black radio alarm clock. The neon-blue numbers read 8:33 p.m. About five hours have passed since Syd’s capture, and this measure of time seems simultaneously too short and too long. To Syd, it feels like five years. What must his mother be thinking now? Is she panicking that he’s been gone so long without a phone call?

Jesse looks at the clock. “I have to get home.”

“Yeah, me too,” Syd sneers.

Jesse leaves, shutting the door behind him. Syd squirms against his restraints, until he finds a position that doesn’t inflame the cramps forming in his sides and shoulders. His thirst temporarily parched, he wonders now what will happen when he has to urinate. _We’ll deal with that later,_ his inner voice tells him. _One nightmare at a time._

His mind returns to thoughts of his mother and Taehyun. Syd never stays this long at Reb’s place, usually arriving home before dark. The last time he was out late without a phone call was the Family Values Tour in October, though he called his mom shortly after the show to let her know the group was going for a late dinner. 

A bitter curl of anger runs through him when he recalls that night; Reb had scored them the tickets for that concert. Reb, the same psychotic asshole complicit in Syd’s rape and torture. Had Syd seen any signs of Reb’s imbalance back then? He tries to think, but his thoughts are muddled, and he wasn’t focusing much on Reb and Derek that night; he was wrapped up in both his own and Taehyun’s excitement, riding the euphoric highs of pulse-pounding metal. 

Aside from the firing range incident, Syd never felt like he was in danger around those two. They both enjoyed the same bands as Syd, the same fucked-up films, had the same sense of dark humor at which Taehyun frowned. He supposes that’s the worst part of all—that he’s been hurt by his own kind, so to speak, after he allowed himself to feel accepted. For the first time in sixteen years, Syd had a group of friends who shared his outcast status and his interests. It should have struck him as too good to be true, but the part of his mind always looking for the other shoe to drop must have been out to lunch. Even when Taehyun expressed concern about the group, Syd dismissed it as Taehyun being jealous, or afraid of losing Syd to people with whom he had more in common.

Maybe this is some kind of punishment for willfully ignoring the warning signs that _must_ have been there. Or punishment for being so desperate for friends that he threw himself into the arms of whoever stood waiting, uncaring what their intentions were. Punishment for being such a goddamn weird, fucked-up kid that he had to go looking for friends in the scrap heap. Sometimes people are outcasts for a reason.

_Why couldn’t you just be normal? If things had gone another way, if you ditched the black clothes and German techno music and the fucking everything-sucks attitude, maybe stayed in the smarty-pants program, you might be home watching Friends or Drew Carey repeats, instead of tied to the bed of a psycho._

Syd can’t deny the logic in that thought, but it doesn’t do him a lot of good now. He needs to stop ruminating on what-ifs and focus on escaping.

Due to his height, he’s taller than the bed is long, and his feet can rest across the sloping curve of the bed’s baseboard without a lot of tension in the ropes binding his ankles. Would it be possible for him to get his feet against the baseboard and push, push, push until the damn thing snaps like a potato chip? He can press his feet against the wood, but does he have the strength? Syd isn’t particularly strong, but if he had the time…

He slides his heels off the top of the baseboard and places his feet flat against it. Then he lets his lower half push, his thighs and calves straining and stretching. He envisions their strength flowing through to the heels and the balls of his feet. He pulls on his wrist restraints, bending a little at the waist for some extra power. Sweat breaks on his forehead, and he sucks in a few deep breaths. 

No give. The bed is made of solid wood, and unless termites have taken to it for a snack, Syd doubts he could break it. And even if he did, where would that get him? He imagines the wood snapping, his heels punching a hole through the middle of the board. A hole with frayed wood edges that _might_ be rough enough to sand down the ropes binding his ankles, but then what? He can’t exactly sling his lower half over his head and use his toes to untie his wrists. 

“Goddamn it,” Syd grumbles. Even MacGyver couldn’t find a way out of this one. Defeated, Syd tries lying down, using his shoulderblades to scrunch the pillow up against the headboard. The clock on the nightstand reads 9:19 p.m.

* * *

He doesn’t realize that he fell asleep until he sees the clock has changed. 3:31 a.m. _The witching hour._ That awful overhead ceiling light is still on, the fan’s blades whipping a cool breeze through the room. He’s pleased to find only a few numb tingles in his extremities, instead of the biting pain he expected after falling asleep. He wiggles his limbs to shake out the pins and needles. 

As he moves, a swelling pain in his groin makes him freeze. His bladder is at its limit, and he has never been the kind of person to hold it for very long anyway; in class, he’s always looking for a reason to leave, to stretch his legs and roam the halls a little before returning to his seat. It’s been at least twelve hours since the tank’s been emptied, and he’s long overdue.

He could call for Reb to untie him for a quick leak, or forgo all that and just piss the bed, his jeans, and his underwear. At least the bed is covered in plastic. But the problem with both options is that either one could result in punishment. If he calls out and disturbs Reb’s sleep—he’s assuming Reb has taken up residence on the living room couch—that could earn him God knows what else: another rape, a beating, some kind of genital torture. But if he doesn’t, there will be a mess to clean, and Reb would probably like that least of all. Maybe he would make Syd clean it up, but Syd doesn’t think Reb would risk untying him to do it. The minute Syd’s out of these ropes, he’s going fucking feral. No, the likely scenario is Reb cleaning up the mess and then punishing Syd for the whole affair. 

It seems wiser, then, to just ask for the toilet or an empty Mountain Dew bottle and see where it takes him. Either way, he’s half-certain he’ll end up being forced to drink his own pee. 

“Hey!” Syd shouts, his voice wrecked and sleep-coated. “Reb! I need a hand!” A nervous laugh bubbles out of his throat. 

He strains to listen for any sounds of movement beyond the bedroom door. A bolt of fear strikes him. What if Reb isn’t home at all? Syd will be left with no other option than to urinate through his clothing and onto the plastic sheet laid over the bed, and Reb will surely punish him for it. The terrifying, looming reality of this scenario makes him fear it even more, and when he speaks again his voice is choked with tears. “C’mon! I have to pee! Reb! Goddamn it!” 

No answer. Tears roll down his cheeks. Impending humiliation stings him like the burn from a hot iron. _This cannot be happening,_ he thinks, all the while too aware that it is. He has never wet the bed, save for one time when he was eight years old and staying overnight with his aunt Kathy in Columbus, Ohio. He had awakened in the middle of the night in a strange house, in a state miles away from his home, and he had been too terrified to get up and walk to the bathroom. He’d been certain there was some kind of monster lurking in the unfamiliar shadows down the hallway. Eventually he had dozed off, and his body took care of the problem while he slept. 

The bedroom door opens, and Reb is standing there, his eyes half-squinting against the ceiling light. He slaps a hand against the wall switch, and the light dies. The fan blades slow to a steady chop, then eventually they cease to move at all. “What are you bitching about?” Reb asks with a snarl.

Suddenly the words he shouted so brazenly moments before are almost impossible to say. “I—I have to pee.”

Reb sighs like this is some great inconvenience. “Fine,” he says, stepping inside the room. “But you have to do something for me first.”

Syd knows it’s going to be awful, but the pain in his bladder is monstrous, enough that he almost doesn’t care what the price is. “If you’re going to fuck me again, you have to let me pee first. Unless you’re into watersports.” Syd almost laughs, but he bites down on the sound before it can leave his mouth. The last thing he wants to do is laugh at a crazy person. 

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Reb says, stripping off his own sweatpants and boxer shorts. He’s naked from the waist down now, his already-erect cock jutting proudly. “At least, not in that hole.” He climbs onto the bed, straddling Syd’s throat this time. 

“Oh no no no, come on,” Syd whimpers. He tries to turn his face away, but Reb’s hands are on either side of his head, forcing his mouth toward the punishing appendage.

“Before you think biting is a good idea, let me remind you that it’ll be the dumbest thing you ever do. If you bite it off and I die from blood loss, you’ll be dead long before my body’s found. And if I don’t die… well, I’ll let you imagine that one.” He gets a hand on Syd’s lower jaw, and Syd sees no other choice than to open up, unless he wants a broken jaw (and possibly other broken bones). 

Reb forces his hips forward, and Syd’s already choking. “It’ll be alright,” Reb says. “Just bigger than you’re used to, huh?” He grins and begins pumping his hips into Syd’s mouth, creaking in and out like an unoiled hinge. Syd remembers watching a special on Animal Planet about snakes, how they unhinge their jaws to swallow large prey. That’s how he feels now, his jaw stretched to its limits. _At least he’s clean_ , Syd thinks and smothers a hysterical laugh. Laughing with a guy’s cock in your mouth is typically a recipe for disaster.

Syd shifts so he can breathe, so the dick can go down his throat and not up his sinuses. His face feels like it’s being jackhammered, and to an extent it is. “Make sure you swallow,” Reb reminds him. Syd wants to do no such thing, but if those are the terms for allowing him to urinate, he knows he must. “If you spit, the deal’s off.” 

Reb has no consideration for Syd’s experience (or lack thereof), jamming in to the hilt each time. The head of his cock jabs against Syd’s gag reflex like a prodding finger, but Syd knows it’s all over if he pukes. He squeezes his hands into fists over his thumbs, and focuses on lifting one leg, then the other—a few tricks he learned while “researching” oral sex techniques online. This seems to alleviate the urge to vomit, though he doesn’t know if that’s the placebo effect in play or not.

The bright side—if there can indeed _be_ a bright side in such dark places—is that Reb’s getting off on all this, and Syd isn’t much of an active participant. He flutters his lips around the base of Reb’s cock a few times, does a few fancy licks with his tongue, then it’s over—but it’s worse now, because Reb’s got a hand fisted at the top of Syd’s head, forcing him impossibly close. With the head of Reb’s dick pressed against the back of Syd’s throat, the spurts of semen tickle like fire ants crawling and biting the sensitive inner lining. Syd wants to scream.

Reb lets go of Syd’s hair, and Syd’s head drops back against the pillow. He sputters and coughs, afraid he’ll choke to death. Reb tastes nothing like Taehyun, who actually _enjoys_ pineapple on his pizza. The slickness on Syd’s tongue now tastes like salty old pennies and blood. His gag reflex threatens again, but Syd fights it. He did the awful deed, now he’s going to reap his reward. 

“Good boy,” Reb sneers, rising up and shaking the last few drops off his cock like he’s at a urinal. Syd feels a light splat on his cheek, but doesn’t move to wipe it away. “I knew you could do it.” Reb gets to his feet, his legs shaking underneath him, and steps into his clothes. “Let’s keep this our little secret. Derek might get jealous.” Reb chuckles, as though the two of them are sharing some kind of private joke. 

He takes the plastic cup off the night table and pulls Syd’s jeans and underwear down. Syd’s jeans were never zipped or buttoned after the rapes, so they go down easily. Reb uses the rim of the cup to fumble Syd’s flaccid cock inside. “I hope you’re not piss-shy. I won’t sit here all night.”

Syd isn’t, but even if he were the dam wouldn’t hold for long. He glances away, refusing to look at Reb while he does his business. _Even my fucking cat gets more privacy,_ he thinks, imagining Arlene’s covered litter pan. Syd looks at the clock: 3:54 a.m.

“Done?” Reb asks when the stream has stopped.

Syd nods. “You’re not gonna make me drink it, are you?” He says it without thinking, as if tossing a joke to the old Reb who used to watch movies with him and bring pizzas to the Rebels at lunch time.

“You think I’m some kind of sicko?” Reb takes the cup away and disappears into the bathroom. Syd hears a splash, a flush, then the hissing of the faucet. When Reb returns, he pulls Syd’s jeans and underwear back up around his hips. Then he moves over to the bureau where the implements of torture are kept.

“Oh, come on!” Syd whimpers. “I did what you wanted! Reb, please.”

“Chill the fuck out.” Reb’s body blocks Syd’s line of sight, but Syd hears clinking sounds that make him nervous. “I’m just putting you to sleep.” He turns around, approaching the bed with a hypodermic needle in hand. Reb pushes Syd’s sleeve up and jabs the needle into the fleshy meat of his upper arm. It’s the arm opposite of his shoulder wound, and for that Syd is grateful, as well as the relative humane nature of the injection. _At least he’s putting me out before the really gruesome stuff._

Syd recalls something Reb said earlier: _A couple doses of sodium pentothal and you won’t even remember any of this. Worst case, you’ll think it was just a fucked-up dream._

“Don’t worry,” Reb says, “I’m keeping you around for a while.”

Syd wonders how long ‘a while’ might be. Until the end of spring break? Once school starts, his absence will be questioned, but maybe no one will look at it too deeply. Teenagers run away all the time, right? They could keep him here forever if they wanted…

Reb smirks, watching Syd struggle with the anesthetizing effects of the drug. By the time Reb is out of the room, Syd too is out.

* * *

_March 12th, 1999_

Taehyun wakes up alone in Syd’s bed. He hoped Syd would stumble in at some point in the night, slip into bed with him, and in the morning Syd would explain whatever ridiculous predicament he’d gotten into that kept him away all night, and maybe they’d laugh about it and everything would be fine. But nothing is fine. 

Taehyun runs his hand over the empty spaces on the mattress, hoping Syd has been here, but the sheets are cold. A lump forms in his throat, threatening to block out everything. He is assailed with a grim certainty that _something_ has happened. Syd wouldn’t just run away and let his mother worry. Where would he go? And the idea of Syd running away without even asking Taehyun to come with him is ludicrous.

After checking the answering machine and finding no messages explaining Syd’s whereabouts, Misty takes Taehyun along for directions to Reb’s apartment. Taehyun has been there numerous times, but only knows the way based on visual landmarks. Misty rolls through the apartment parking lot, both her and Taehyun searching for Syd’s car. 

Taehyun hopes all of this is just a silly misunderstanding; maybe Syd smoked or drank too much and passed out at Reb’s, and of course Reb wouldn’t know Syd’s home phone number to call and let Misty know what happened. Maybe Syd’s in there having breakfast now.

But the parking lot is devoid of Syd’s familiar gray Honda Prelude. Misty sighs, her hopes dashed. She parks in an empty space and turns off the car. “What apartment is it? I’m going in.”

Taehyun tells her, but insists on going along. Misty digs through her purse for a sticky note, rummages through the car’s glove compartment for a pen. She sticks the note on the wheel and writes her name and phone number on it. They find Reb’s ground floor apartment and knock. Taehyun glances around the parking lot, looking for Reb’s car this time. He doesn’t see it, but he isn’t sure he’d be able to pick the thing out of a lineup regardless. He’s only seen the car sporadically, and he doesn’t recall any vanity plates or bumper stickers that make it unique. 

Misty knocks again after getting no answer the first time. Taehyun can see her patience wearing thin; her makeup is sparse, highlighting her lack of sleep from the night before. There are deep worry lines around her eyes and mouth that weren’t there yesterday morning. 

Just as Misty is about to begin pounding the door with her fist, it opens. Derek answers, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Were those the same clothes he was wearing yesterday? Taehyun doesn’t know; he wasn’t paying attention, though he remembers Syd wore a white T-shirt and black pants yesterday.

“What’s up?” Derek asks, noticing Misty first and then Taehyun. Taehyun watches his face, the confusion at Misty, then the recognition when he sees Taehyun, and maybe a tremor of fear when he realizes who Misty is. “You, uh, you’re Syd’s mom?” 

“Yes, Misty Reed. I was wondering if you knew where my son is.”

“Where’s Reb?” Taehyun wonders, confused why Derek is answering the door to Reb’s apartment.

“He’s at work,” Derek says. “He wanted me to watch the place while he’s gone. There’ve been break-ins around here.”

_And you’re willing to house-sit while you’re on spring break?_ Taehyun thinks. “What about Syd? He was here yesterday, yeah?”

Derek says that he was. “We filmed some stuff for our movie, then he left around”—Derek makes a show of thinking about this—”six, I think.” Then concern, but there’s something alien about it that doesn’t sit right with Taehyun. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“Syd hasn’t come home,” Misty says, blinking back tears, a quiver in her voice. “It isn’t like him to stay away without calling. Did he say where he was going?”

Derek shakes his head. “Just said he was heading home. He might’ve stopped somewhere, but I wouldn’t know.”

The slivers of renewed hope in Misty’s expression shatter. “If you see him or hear from him, will you call?” She gives him the sticky note with her name and phone number written across it. “I’m worried out of my mind.” 

Derek takes the note. “Sure thing. Hope he turns up.” He shuts the door, and Taehyun hears the sound of a lock from the other side. 

As Taehyun and Misty walk back to the car, she says, “We have to go to the police. I don’t know where else to look.”

Taehyun doesn’t either. Carrie and her parents are out of town by now—she mentioned leaving early for her flight yesterday during lunch—so Syd can't be there. He doubts Syd would hide out at Jesse’s, and even if he did, Taehyun has only been to the house once. He wouldn’t be able to direct Misty there.

He does, however, think something is amiss with the whole Reb and Derek situation. But what that might be is beyond him.

Misty drives them to the Denver Police Department to file a missing person report. They are corralled to the desk of a detective who asks the same questions over and over in different keys. Misty provides a somewhat-recent photo of Syd, a detailed description of what he’d been wearing, and the events that transpired the day he vanished. _Fuck_. Vanished, like a missing kid on the back of a milk carton or a story on the evening news.

The detective—his peeling desk nameplate reads _Healy_ —says, “Can you think of any reason why your son might have run off?”

“He didn’t _run off_ ,” Misty insists. “He wouldn’t, and I wish I had something more to justify that, but I’m his mother. I would know.”

Healy gives an unimpressed frown. “I understand your concerns,” he says, and even Taehyun knows the man understands nothing of the sort, “but in a lot of situations like this, the kid’s just run off for one reason or another. Most of the time they come back on their own without a scratch. How about his friends? Anybody he hangs around with?”

“I’ve already checked there,” Misty says.

Taehyun supplies the names of their school friends. Healy types the names into his computer. “There’s this older guy Derek and Syd hang around with. He calls himself Reb, but I’m sure that’s not his real name. He works at a pizza shop. I think it’s called Joker’s Wild.”

Misty chimes in, “He lives in the apartment complex on Manes. I think the number was 20. I just went there to ask if he’s seen Syd, but he wasn’t home.”

“Derek was there,” Taehyun says. “He said Syd left last night around six, but… I don’t know. It seemed strange, him being there.”

Healy nods as though this confirms some suspicion of his. His glance turns back to the computer screen. “Derek Pierce has quite the juvenile record: theft, criminal mischief, first degree criminal trespass. I won’t find anything like that for your son, will I?”

Misty glares at him, as if trying to make his head explode with her mind. “No.”

Taehyun should probably be surprised by the length of Derek’s rap sheet, but somehow he isn’t. However, the sinking feeling in his gut claws even deeper.

Healy taps a few keys, presumably typing Syd’s name into whatever database in which he found Derek’s records. His confident expression falters, as Taehyun knew it would. Syd talks a big game, but his criminal record is nonexistent. So Healy shifts gears. “It doesn’t sound like there’s any foul play here. I think your son just ran off, the way teenagers do sometimes, especially around spring break.”

Misty lets out a humorless laugh. “So you’re not even going to look for him?”

“We’ll do what we can, knock on doors, get the word out, but with no signs of foul play, all fingers point towards your son being a runaway. I know that’s not something any parent wants to hear but—”

Misty stands up in a rush, shoving her chair back in the process. “You _know_ nothing. You think because one of his friends is a troublemaker, that means Syd is too? He could have wrecked his car somewhere, or he could have been kidnapped! Maybe Syd _does_ have it in him to run away, but if he did, I’d bet my life that he wouldn’t do it without a phone call. I’m sorry he’s no JonBenét, but that doesn’t mean you get to blow him off.”

Healy nods like he’s listening, like Misty’s desperate anger has reached him. “Sit down, Miss Reed. Let’s try this again. Does your son have a credit card?”

Misty takes her seat again, shaking her head. “He’s sixteen. He uses cash.”

“Does he have a job?”

Another head shake. “He doesn’t have enough money to run away with, if that’s where you’re going with this.”

“How about a car?”

Misty names the make and model, recalls the license plate number. “You can track that, right? Maybe he stopped somewhere—or whoever took him did.” She scrubs a hand over her face, as if distraught that she even considered the theory of Syd running away.

“We’ll check the surveillance cameras of local gas stations, see if the car shows up,” Healy agrees. “In most cases, people don’t just disappear. They leave a trail. Whether that trail was left by your son or some unknown assailant remains to be seen. But we’ll find it.”

* * *

Syd woke from the dope feeling cloudy, as though his head was stuffed with cotton. His arms and shoulders ached with a deep-set pain that almost felt a part of him now. He heard a faint banging, as though someone was at the front door, then Derek rushed into the room with one of the sawed-off shotguns. The barrel (what remained of it) was pointed at Syd’s face. In his other hand, Derek held the washcloth he’d been using as a gag.

“You don’t make a goddamn sound,” Derek growled. He propped the gun against the wall and stuck the rag into Syd’s mouth. The rag held a ghastly taste of old saliva and industrial cleaner. Derek leaned in, his face hovering inches from Syd’s own. “I mean it. If whoever that is hears _anything_ —or I hear something and think they heard it too—you’re fucking dead. And so is that poor fucker at the door.”

Derek was out of the room before Syd could reply, shutting the door behind him as he left. Then Syd heard the heavy _chunk_ sound of the front door opening. Derek’s voice sounded in a low mumble, then Syd heard something that made his heart both leap and sink: his mother.

He strained to make out the words, but all he could hear were the high, sweet tones of his mother’s voice. She had to be looking for him. There was no other explanation for her being here. But how would she know where Reb lived unless—

Then came Taehyun’s voice, and Syd felt fresh tears stinging his eyes and rolling down the sides of his face. They were both here, mere _feet_ away, and Syd could reach them no more than he could if they were all the way across the world. He swallowed back a cry, trying not to choke on the foul rag, and found that he was sweating in cold-hot beads across his forehead. 

Syd might have risked a scream if it were a Girl Scout or Jehovah’s Witness at the door, but not the two people he loves most. He imagined a scenario: _he screams from behind the rag to alert Misty and Taehyun; Derek hears and knows they heard it too; they charge inside to rescue him, but Derek grabs the shotgun, and their heads explode in a spray of red mist._ Syd didn’t doubt Derek was a man of his word when it came to threats. 

So he listened, sobbing silently at the comforting sound of his mother’s voice. He would have given an arm or a leg (or both) to communicate with her telepathically: _I’m in here! Send the cops, the SWAT team, the entire goddamn Marine Corps!_ But even if he could, part of him knew his mother would try to rescue him herself. His gaze flitted to the shotgun propped menacingly against the bedroom wall. Derek was armed; Misty was not. And Syd doubted her protective motherly fury could go toe-to-toe with a shotgun. 

Eventually the conversation ceased, and Syd heard the front door shut, heard the thick snap of the deadbolt. Derek lingered out there for a while, perhaps watching Misty climb into her car and drive away, before reentering the bedroom. 

“Well, aren’t you Mister Popular?” Derek grinned, waggling a yellow sticky note at him. The note showed Misty’s name and home phone number. Derek crumpled the note in his fist and tossed it toward the trash can. It bounced off the rim and landed on the dingy carpet. “You got a whole search party looking for you. We can’t have that. Don’t want the cops or your mom sniffing around, even though she’s kinda hot.”

Syd scowled behind the rag, his teeth biting into the terrycloth. When he had been in middle school, it had been commonplace for him to hear lewd comments about his mother—especially from the boys who had younger siblings in her class—but Derek was the last person Syd wanted to hear it from now. 

Derek began rummaging through the bureau drawers, shoving Reb’s socks and underwear aside. He pulled the night table drawer out, found nothing, slammed it shut. He stalked back out to the living room, and Syd heard the sounds of chaos as Derek went rifling through drawers and cabinets. “Fuck!” Derek shouted, and Syd had a sick notion that things were about to get worse.

He saw Derek cross the room, then heard the faint sound of a phone being dialed. “Is Reb there?” Derek asked when the call went through. Pause. Then, “Reb, hey, it’s Derek. We’ve got a bit of a problem. Where’s your burner phone?” Pause. A groan. “Goddamn it!” Another pause. “I’m not telling you over a pizza place phone line, dipshit.” Pause. “Can you swing by on your break?” Another pause. “Alright.” A beep, and the call was disconnected.

Derek came back into the room, looking rattled. “Good, that gives us some time.” He shut the door, fumbling in his jeans pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He climbed over the baseboard and landed between Syd’s legs. Derek pushed them wider, and Syd groaned as his thighs protested the stretch. 

Derek set the lighter and cigarettes on the bed, and used his hands to pull Syd’s jeans down past his knees. He noticed the blood-bruised hickeys Taehyun had left two nights ago, and a cruel smile split his face. He shook a cigarette out of the pack, lighting it behind a cupped hand. Smoke billowed from the red-hot tip. Derek tapped the trail of ash over Syd’s thigh before jamming the hot tip against one of the hickeys. Syd jerked, shrieking behind the rag, and fell back into the void.

* * *

It’s the middle of the afternoon when the phone rings in the Reed household. Misty rushes to the phone, picks it up, says hello in a shaky voice.

“Mom? It’s me.”

She almost screams, but her lungs feel too flat to even breathe. 

“Mom?”

She finds her voice, and a vomit of questions comes out. “Syd? Where are you? Are you alright? What happened?” She’s gripping the kitchen counter, her legs turning to jelly beneath her. Taehyun rushes over, both to steady her and to hear Syd’s side of the conversation. 

“I’m alive, Mom. Don’t worry about me,” Syd says, slowly, as if measuring each word. 

Misty begins to cry. “Of course I worry about you! I love you! Please come home, okay? Whatever it is, I won’t be mad. Are you—are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Mom,” Syd sighs, the way he does when Misty nags him about his chores or his homework, and she cries harder. “It’s not like that. I just need some time on my own.”

“Just tell me where you are. Please.”

“I—I don’t want anyone coming after me, alright? You promise?”

Misty promises, but it’s shallow, a promise she intends to break. 

“I’m just outside Littleton. I’m heading south. Albuquerque sounds nice. Maybe I’ll do something with turquoise.”

His typical humor in this bizarre situation makes her cry harder. “Stay where you are, okay? I’ll wire you some money.”

“No, no, you don’t need to do that. I took my hidden stash this morning,” he says, and she’s cold all over. _Did he plan this?_ she wonders, assailed by the possibility she may not know her son at all. “I love you, Mom,” he says, sounding teary, and all of a sudden he’s her little boy again, jumping into bed with her after a nightmare.

Misty wipes her eyes. The back of her hand comes away with smears of dark mascara. “I love you too, honey.”

“I’m sorry, y’know, about all of this. But I didn’t like life too much and I know I’ll be happy wherever the fuck I go. So I’m gone. Can you—Is Taehyun there?”

Misty hands the cordless over to Taehyun, almost fumbling the receiver in her haste. 

Taehyun says hello, and Syd’s voice floats into his ear. “Tae,” he sighs in that sweet, admiring way of his. “Take care of Mom and Arlene, okay?”

“I—I will, but you have to come home. Please?” Taehyun whimpers, half-mad with grief and shock.

“I’m so sorry, _jagi._ I wish I would’ve just—” He stops himself. “Well, never mind. _Saenggakago inneun geot isangeuro saranghae._ ”

Before Taehyun can answer, the phone is dead at his ear. The thought that he may never hear Syd’s voice again breaks him into tears. 

“What? What did he say?” Misty grabs the phone and tries to star-sixty-nine the number. 

“He said he loves me,” Taehyun says, numbly, and simply speaking the words gets him crying harder. Misty wraps an arm around his shoulders. She curses at the phone, slamming it down on the kitchen counter. “What did he say to you?”

“He said he’s going to Albuquerque. But it sounded like he might—” 

She cuts that one off, refusing to give voice to the notion that Syd would ever commit suicide. But hadn’t it been lurking in her mind as a possibility? She recalls the ketchup incident when Syd was in eighth grade. He swore up and down that it was a joke, a hoax so he could get out of school that day, but even back then Misty had her doubts. Syd has always seemed to have a dark cloud around him, even when he was born. 

“Like he might kill himself?” Taehyun finishes for her, sounding exhausted. 

“God, what if Susan was right?” Misty wails, slipping down the cabinets and crumpling onto the floor. “I could have helped him…” She begins to sob anew. Taehyun sits beside her and hugs her like she is his own mother.

* * *

Almost as soon as the Korean endearment is out of Syd’s mouth, Derek’s reaching for the phone and jamming the ‘end call’ button. He rips the receiver from between Syd’s ear and shoulder, handing Reb the burner phone. “You fucked up,” Derek tells Syd, his dark eyes glinting underneath their thick brows.

Syd can think of plenty of fuck-ups in that conversation himself—lying to his mother, pretending he’s on the run, convincing her he’s gone someplace to off himself—but he doubts any of those are what Derek’s referring to.

“Your job was to sell your mom a believable lie to keep the cops from sniffing around,” Derek continues. “Not to talk to your fucking boyfriend, and _not_ to send him a secret fucking message in Jap-speak.”

Syd supposes it would have been clever—and helpful—to give Taehyun a message in Korean about his whereabouts, but all the Korean he knows comes from Taehyun teaching him sappy love phrases. He never had the foresight to ask how to say, “I’m being held at Reb’s apartment, send help,” in Korean. Even if he had, mentioning Reb’s name would have been a huge red flag, and the ruse would be revealed. 

“I just said I loved him,” Syd admits, his voice low.

Reb and Derek share a laugh. “Sure, because if I was in your position and spoke a language no one else in the room knew, I’d definitely use it for some faggy declaration of love, not for giving a hint on where I am,” Derek sneers.

“All I said was ‘I love you more than you know.’” Syd feels his face going hot, and he can’t stop it. Reb and Derek laugh again, and suddenly Syd’s back in his eighth-grade classroom, listening to that bitch Rachel Larson mocking his love letter over the school announcements. _You’re going to fucking die_ , Syd thinks, listening to both of them laugh and snicker. _If I get my hands on that shotgun…_

Derek’s grinning as his laughter ebbs. “I think you’re a big enough faggot to actually say that, but it pisses me off you think you can trick me.” The grin falls away, replaced by stony obduracy. “I’m not fucking stupid, you little shit. And I’m not gonna let you sit here and think you got one over on me. Fuck you!” He grabs the shotgun, still propped against the wall, and rams the butt end into Syd’s face.

Pain bursts through Syd’s lower jaw, his chin, the base of his right ear. He tastes blood, thick and salty, on his tongue. Panicked, he runs his tongue over his teeth, praying he doesn’t find an empty socket. All of his teeth are intact; the blood must have come from his tongue, which begins to throb like a white-hot nova. 

Then Derek brings the butt of the shotgun down on Syd’s chest in a blow that he’s certain cracks his sternum. Another blow to his middle—hopefully avoiding a rupture of any internal organs—then finally, a grand slam between his legs that crushes his dick and balls. Syd jerks reflexively at that one, pain exploding through his groin like a bolt. He makes a pathetic keening sound, his entire body shaking, and even these tremors hurt.

“I don’t think he’s learned his lesson,” Derek says, clicking his tongue like a disappointed aunt. He sets the shotgun against the wall, looks at Reb. “Any ideas?”

Reb rummages through his toolkit while Derek sticks the rag back into Syd’s mouth. Syd prays for the void again—he was never much of a religious man, though he supposes there are no atheists in foxholes, as the saying goes—and is grateful to faint when Reb turns around holding a rubber-gripper can opener. 

Syd is slapped awake throughout, each time registering a hot, ripping pain in his chest before falling back under again. The can opener does not go anywhere near his cock, his teeth, his fingers or toes; instead, Reb latches it onto a nipple and twists until Syd is screaming and the pain is obliterating. His chest is a gory mess, and he slips into the void again, uncaring if he ever finds his way back.

When he resurfaces, Reb is gone, and Derek is raping him again. Syd is almost thankful, preferring the dull ache down below to the sharp knives at his nipple. He turns a bleary eye to the left side of his chest, which is covered in still-tacky blood. Derek scratches his nails over the burn marks on Syd’s thighs, but the pain is dim, as though he is disconnected from his own body. 

Syd has never wanted to survive as much as he does right now. He once read a magazine article about suicide survivors who had flung themselves off bridges or other high promontories. Each one had said much the same: they’d regretted the jump as soon as they’d taken it, realizing the problems that had seemed so overwhelming could be solved with a less permanent solution. Syd supposes he is in this mid-jump phase, grasping for a lifeline as the ground rapidly rises to meet him. More than anything else, he wants to live.

So he does what he must to survive. He lets his mind drift, staying in the clouds, away from the reality of the things happening here. He is vaguely aware of them, but only as a spectator, as if he’s playing _Doom_ on the final stage with only his fists for defense—no chaingun or BFG to blow the demons away, just his own cunning and determination to see things through. 

He stays in the clouds when Derek finishes, though almost lured out by the wet, warm splatter on his stomach. Syd asks for water—only water, he knows he can last longer without food than drink—and Derek brings it to him in the same plastic cup in which Syd emptied his bladder. He is past the point of caring whether the cup is rinsed between uses. Survival, first and foremost, no matter the cost.

He wonders how close he might be to going verifiably insane.


	8. Wrath (March 1999 - Part 2)

_"History has a way of altering villains so that we can no longer see ourselves in them."_ \- Adam Serwer

* * *

_March 12th, 1999_

After Syd’s call, and when she could finally dial the numbers without hyperventilating, Misty rang the police to update them on the phone call. An officer came by the house to take the report and trace the number, but since the call had already happened, star-sixty-nine was the only viable option, and that only worked if the phone that made the call was turned on. This eliminated pay-phones from the list of potential phones from which Syd could have placed the call. 

But Taehyun could see how quickly the police’s interest waned after Misty explained there was no ransom, that the phone call had come from Syd himself explaining he needed time away. Although the officer stated he would get in contact with some colleagues in Jefferson County to keep an eye out for Syd’s Honda Prelude, he would make no guarantees. 

Deflated, Misty sits with Taehyun on the couch after swallowing two aspirin. The sun is sinking below the horizon, and the house is quiet, save for Arlene’s distressed meows. “She misses him,” Misty says, sounding detached. “She knows something’s wrong.” Since last night, Arlene has roamed from room to room, as if searching for Syd in every nook and cranny of the house. When she sleeps, she curls up on the mat near the front door, as though in hopes of being the first to see him return. 

“Maybe he’s already dead…” Misty murmurs.

Taehyun shakes his head. “No. He wouldn’t do that.”

There’s anguish in her voice when she speaks again. “Syd has been troubled for a long time. Maybe you haven’t seen it; he’s been a lot better since you came to live with us. So much better I thought maybe his”—she searches for the word—”mood swings were just a phase he was going through. I always wondered if he would have been easier to understand if he was a girl. Or maybe I’m just fooling myself and no parent really understands a teenager. I spend all day with kindergarteners who are so transparent and have no problem saying what they want and how they feel. Then I come home to a moody teenager who locks himself in his room or the basement and listens to loud music and plays violent games and watches murder movies and I just… don’t understand him at all. I shouldn’t have divorced Wade… Wade would know how to handle this.”

She’s talking more to herself than Taehyun, and he tries to reel her back in. “Are you going to tell Syd’s father?”

“I don’t know.” Misty sniffles, dabbing her wet eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. “I’m afraid he’ll say I’m a bad mother, and I’m afraid that he’ll be right. He will find a way to make this my fault, and if he doesn’t, Susan definitely will. If I bring him into this, I lose Syd, if I haven’t lost him already.”

“You really think he killed himself?” Taehyun says in a trembling whisper.

The words start Misty’s tears anew. “Did he ever tell you about the time he faked a suicide?”

“Eighth grade? The ketchup incident?”

Misty seems mildly surprised by Taehyun’s knowledge of this. “That’s the one. He did it to get out of school because everyone was laughing at him over some note he wrote to a girl. He told me it was just a joke, but I don’t think it was a joke at all.”

That tracks with what Taehyun was told. Syd was straightforward about that, at least.

“Since he entered middle school, I’ve worried he’ll either hurt himself or someone else. When he gets angry—really mad—he blows up, screaming and swearing. He never does it with me, just teachers or other students. He had a really difficult time between eighth and tenth grade. There was the faked suicide, a lot of detentions for blowing up at his teachers over grades or getting into fights; he felt very strongly about the school’s zero-tolerance policy about fighting, and I felt it was a little unfair too. He got suspended a few times not just for retaliating when bigger kids would push him around, but for cursing out the principal who gave the suspension. He would say, ‘It’s bullshit I get punished too for standing up for myself,’ and that the school’s policy just meant bullied kids learned to shut up and take a beating, because fighting back meant getting in trouble.

“Those were also the years he got braces, and I wonder if there was any correlation. And I’ll take the blame for that, because I urged him to get them on then, instead of waiting until high school.”

Arlene approaches the couch, apparently giving up on her pursuit of Syd—at least temporarily. Misty pats the spot beside her, and the cat leaps up. Misty strokes Arlene’s fur while she talks, like she needs something with which to occupy her hands. 

“He was upset because he thought girls wouldn’t like him if he had braces. And I told him, ‘look, if it’s girls you’re interested in, you don’t want to wait until high school to get braces. High school is when dating and girlfriends actually matter.’ That’s a lie, really, but when you’re that age, college and adulthood are far off enough that they almost don’t seem real. It convinced him, but I think he still struggled with his self-image. He was already so tall, which made him stick out when all he wanted was to blend in.”

Taehyun remembers some of the earlier entries in Syd’s journal: _I wish I could stop being at war with myself, the world, the universe, my mind, my body… I swear, it’s like I’m an outcast and everyone is conspiring against me. I feel so lonely without a friend. Why am I even alive? What do I have that’s good?_

“He always struggled with making friends,” Misty continues. “It was rare that he’d ever bring anyone over to the house. I don’t know if he was embarrassed of it, of me, or what. He was more social in elementary school. We had a neighbor with a boy Syd’s age, and they would play together every now and then. But they moved, and as Syd got older and his interests got stranger, he seemed to withdraw.” 

She looks at him, a warm kindness in her eyes. “Bringing you here was my last-ditch effort to give Syd a friend. I always thought that he would have been better off if I’d had another kid. I grew up with a sister and a brother, and as much as they got on my nerves sometimes, you form a bond when you live under the same roof, especially when you’re around the same age.”

“What would you have done if we didn’t get along?” Taehyun wonders.

Misty gives a soft laugh. “I never considered it. Most people look at Syd, and they see the black clothes and the metal band logos and his long hair and think he must be a troublemaker, or a Satan worshipper, or a dangerous loner. But I thought maybe the stereotypes in our country are different than in yours. That you would give him a chance because you didn’t know any better, as awful as that sounds.”

And Taehyun had, hadn’t he? His entire view of America was shaped by Western media, but even while watching he knew those shows were merely a facsimile of the country’s culture, sometimes more of a pastiche or parody than anything representing reality. He understood this from watching South Korean media and failing to see reality wholly represented there either. In TV and movies, drama wraps up in a neat little package when all is said and done. People are rarely three-dimensional, instead embodiments of one or two personality traits; black-and-white morality holds sway, with shades of grey deemed too much for the average audience to handle. 

The stereotypes and subcultures of American youth _are_ vastly different from those in South Korea. Taehyun had no idea what to think of Syd when they first met, and this ignorance of subcultural prejudices might have allowed their friendship and romance to blossom. 

“He’s not a bad person,” Misty says. “He’s just… damaged. In every quiet moment, I hear that phone call and wonder if I’ve heard his voice for the last time. He said he didn’t like life too much, that he’s gone.” Her tears start again, and she wipes them away with the heel of her hand. “Everything I know of him added to that phone call tells me he’s already—” She can’t say it, shakes her head as if shaking away the thought. “But he was part of me for nine months. If something like that happened, wouldn’t I feel it?”

Misty’s emotions are a tornado, and it’s easy for Taehyun to get sucked in. Entertaining the idea of Syd killing himself or running away makes Taehyun’s mind drift to worst-case scenarios. He has to force himself to think rationally.

On one hand, a solid case could be made for Syd’s suicide: Misty’s recounting of Syd’s troubled mind, the violent, depressive content of the journals, his last, foreboding phone call. It would make sense that, if Syd were to commit suicide, he would do it in a way that wouldn’t end up with Misty or Taehyun finding him. 

But on the other, Taehyun witnessed Syd’s highs and lows over the last eight months, and he’s seen more highs than lows recently. He’s seen Syd at his surly, depressive worst, but the last few months have been a kind of honeymoon phase; when they were together in the dark, Taehyun would study Syd’s face and drink in the awe and admiration there. Syd always looked at him like Taehyun was something sacred, something Syd couldn't believe he got to have. His gaze held worship, but maybe Taehyun wasn’t seeing what he thought he saw. Maybe the honeymoon phase was waning, and actually living their happily-ever-after frightened Syd into running.

So much for rationality. All roads seem to lead to Syd’s demise. Taehyun’s stomach curdles.

“He wrote a lot of things in a journal,” Taehyun says after a moment. “Maybe… maybe he left something behind that might…” He doesn’t know how to finish that. When he’d read the journal back in October, he’d hoped he wouldn’t find a suicide note in those pages. But finding one then would have at least given him a chance to talk to Syd and help him see straight. If he finds a suicide note now, well, a day late and a dollar short, as the saying goes.

Taehyun leads Misty down to the basement, lifts the couch cushions, and hits paydirt. The journal is still there. Does that mean anything? Maybe that’s a bad sign, like Syd knew they would be searching for answers.

Taehyun hesistates, but Misty grabs the notebook. She flips through the pages, searching for the most recent entries. As much as he wants to get in close and view the pages with her, he doesn’t think he can move. 

Misty’s eyes frantically scan the lines of the notebook. He watches her expression. It doesn’t change from its mask of suspended terror. Taehyun hopes she will not venture into the back pages, the entries from Syd’s dark years where everything was black and blood-red. “Is it bad?” he finally asks, twisted up with suspense.

“I don’t know,” Misty stammers. “He talks about Lunar New Year, Valentine’s Day, being in love with you.” She looks up from the notebook, and her gaze is suddenly ice. “Did you have a fight? Tae, please, you have to be honest with me—”

“We didn’t!” 

She grasps his arms, still holding the journal, and the spiral binding of the notebook presses into his flesh. “Are you positive? Not even a tiny argument? Maybe you didn’t mean to, but you could’ve said something that made him think you wanted to break up, or—”

“No,” Taehyun says, shaking his head, but even now he wonders. He tries to recall their last conversation, but it was so mundane he can’t remember all its intricacies. “We talked about what we were going to do over spring break. He seemed excited.” He thinks harder, remembering the car ride home, analyzing it with fresh eyes. A cold memory rises to the surface. “I told him I didn’t want to lose him. He promised it would never happen.” The cruel irony of this statement does not escape him.

Misty holds her breath for a moment, as if trying to regain hold of her sanity. “Oh God…” In this moment, Misty and Taehyun are connected in the horror of simultaneous realization: if Syd didn’t kill himself, someone has taken him and forced him to call home. Someone may be doing unspeakable, unimaginable things to him right now. 

Taehyun thinks of a deep, weeping gash across the throat he once laid kisses over. A shotgun blast to the head, demolishing Syd’s clever, troubled brain like a stick of dynamite in a rotted pumpkin. Syd’s bloated, decomposing corpse being discovered in a creek, his skeletal teeth exposed after the lips have been chewed off by wildlife, lips which had once kissed Taehyun and brought him to orgasm.

Lips which had promised to stick around for a while.

* * *

Syd slowly wakes from a doze. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, doesn’t know how he keeps dozing off like some old fart in a nursing home. Being tied up in the bed of two psychos seems like a situation in which sleep would be impossible, and yet…

_It’s the drugs. They’re doping you up so you forget, and it’s working, isn’t it? You don’t remember the stick of the needle, and pretty soon you may not remember any of this at all._

That makes a solid case for Reb and Derek letting him go, then, doesn’t it? Why would they drug him to the point of amnesia if their intent all along is to kill him? 

He considers the array of humiliations and abuses he has suffered over the last—he checks the clock—twenty-eight hours, and presumes he has gotten off somewhat lightly, compared to other infamous torture victims. He hasn’t been fed live roaches or his own shit—hasn’t been fed anything except a healthy serving of cock—hasn’t been forced to drink his own piss, hasn’t lost any fingers, toes, or limbs, just a nipple clinging for dear life to a strip of skin. Aside from his rapist’s cocks, he hasn’t been assaulted with anything up his ass: no oversized dildos, no cola bottles, or other objects never intended for bodily insertion.

_Why, I’m having just a grand ol’ time at Casa Reb_ , Syd thinks, smothering a wild laugh that threatens to bubble out. 

Those injustices are only the things he remembers, and it’s possible Reb and Derek did other unspeakable things to him while Syd floated in the clouds on the drugs. He combs through the haze, trying to remember why his chest and jaw hurt. Derek hit him with something, didn’t he? Hurricane Derek blew through, rage exploding in the form of a shotgun against Syd’s breastbone and face. Rage over what, exactly?

_Realization. When Derek feels like he’s been outsmarted, he gets mad. You never want to flex your ingenuity in front of Derek, not if you know what’s good for you. I think he realized things aren’t going the way he thought they would._

The door swings open, and Derek bursts in. He shuts the door, turns the lock, and stuffs the rag into Syd’s mouth. _Hello, washrag, my old friend,_ Syd thinks wryly, tasting the old, stale rag once again. _I’ve come to chew on you again._

“Don’t. Fucking. Breathe.” Derek’s eyes are wild, his forehead beading with sweat. He has both hands clamped over the rag in Syd’s mouth, holding him down and silent. Syd has never seen him like this; the only time Derek was remotely this panicked was after Misty and Taehyun’s surprise visit. Someone with real power must be coming, else Derek wouldn’t look like a cornered, crazed animal.

The cops.

_Scream, goddamn you! Scream! If there was ever a time to scream your fucking head off, here it is!_

But the shotgun is still propped against the bedroom wall, close enough that Syd might manage one good holler before presto chango, now you see Syd’s head and now you don’t. The mental image is stultifying, made worse by how likely it seems. Syd wouldn’t put it past Derek to blow them both to kingdom come, not now when the stakes are so high.

Syd strains to hear anything other than Derek’s rapid, loud breathing. A knock on the front door. Voices. Derek presses harder on Syd. This close, he can smell Derek’s fear-sweat, secretive and nasty. Syd listens to the voices on the other side of the door. He can only make out snippets of conversation, but it’s enough.

“—Gardner with the Denver Police Department. We’re looking for a missing kid, Syd Reed. According to his mother, he was here yesterday—”

Reb’s voice: “—around three or four. I think he left around six, said he had to get home—”

“—seen him or been in contact with him since—”

“No, haven’t seen him since he left yesterday—”

“—Derek Pierce? Are you in contact with him—”

“Is he missing too?”

The cop’s tone shifts, apparently not a fan of Reb’s smart-ass answer. “—just following up on leads, Mr. Bennet. We hear he’s a friend of yours.”

“Well, sure, but I don’t see what that has to do with—”

Another voice, probably the cop’s partner: “—own any cellular phones, Mr. Bennet?”

“—what this is about?”

“Just a yes or no question.”

“I think it’s within my rights not to answer.”

The first cop again: “—mind if we took a look around?”

“I would, actually. I know my rights.”

“—sure you do, sir. Thank you, Mr. Bennet, for your cooperation. We may have to check back with you.” 

Reb says something to the effect of “not without a warrant,” and shuts the door. Derek lets out a deep exhale but does not relieve the pressure on Syd’s mouth. “Jesus,” he gripes, “this place is turning into Grand fucking Central today.”

_That’ll happen when you kidnap someone_ , Syd thinks. 

After a moment, presumably after watching the cop car back out of the parking lot and drive away, Reb opens the door. “Derek.” He jerks his head in a _come-here_ gesture. Derek gives Syd an icy glare before leaving the room. Through the closed door, Syd listens.

“This is getting fucking insane,” Reb says. “We have to act now before they come back.”

“They need a warrant,” Derek says, like he’s an expert. Maybe he is; on occasion, Derek would brag about his run-ins with the law. He was caught breaking into a van when he was sixteen and was sent to a juvenile diversion program; Derek liked to boast about his early release from the program, how he fooled everyone with his good behavior. Syd would bet Vegas money on Reb having a criminal record too. 

“They can get one if they want. Cops around here hate me.”

“What do you want to do?” Derek asks, dropping the pretense of calming Reb down. “Shoot him up again and leave him somewhere?”

Syd holds his breath.

“I don’t think the sodium pentathol is working. I think he’ll talk if we let him go.”

“Just say it,” Derek says with a devilish grin in his voice. “You wanna—” He makes a popping sound with his lips that Syd hears even through the door. 

“I think we have to,” Reb says, not sounding the least bit bothered by this. “I hoped everyone would think he just ran off—especially with the car missing—but, shit, I’m being held to the fire now. I can’t go down for this.”

“Me neither,” Derek snaps. “Not for that little fucking half-wit.” Syd’s stomach feels like the inside of an icemaker. “If we do it, it has to be good. This is what we always wanted to do, right?”

Their voices fade away, shadows disappearing from the door as they move into the living room. Syd hears the murmur of conversation, but they keep their voices low, obstructing him from learning their strategies. 

Syd shifts on the bed, trying to shake the seeping coldness from sinking into his hands and feet. Hunger cramps have seized his belly, though they are a soft pillow in the face of his ruined nipple, the overstressed tendons of his shoulders and wrists and ankles, the crack in his sternum. The crack is the worst, present in every moment, stretched and strained with every slight movement. There is no position comfortable enough to stave off the sharp stab of the fracture; when he thinks he finds one, muscle cramps stab his shoulders and armpits, each one like the jab of a hot poker. 

He can feel his death approaching, lurking in his captors’ whispers. Neither of them expected the cops to actually show up, and while the questioning was routine, for Reb and Derek it seemed to spell the end of their little game. But suppose the police never showed: how long did they intend to keep him? Syd supposes at some point the adrenaline thrill of having a hostage wears off, and each subsequent act of torture never truly recaptures the rush of the first. When you’re that much of an adrenaline junkie, murder is the final step, a last-ditch effort to live the ultimate thrill of power and control.

_This is what we always wanted to do, right?_

They were never planning on letting him go. The sodium pentathol may have been a test of their own resolve, but it proved too risky, too uncertain on which to bet their freedom. Killing Syd would be the only way to truly silence him and ensure his memories never emerge from the fog. 

_Well, let’s get on with it. I’ve got a lot of dying to do. Quit fucking with me and just pull down the blinds already._

But Syd isn’t ready to die just yet. Now he knows what they intend to do, what they’ve intended to do all along, and the desire for retribution crackles within him like a flame. 

The idea comes at once, so perfect and poetic in its simplicity: _kill them all_. The rage he has stored inside over the last sixteen years is a powder keg, and these two fucking idiots just lit the fuse. What would Reb sound like screaming in pain? How would Derek look pleading for his life?

Behind the rag, Syd grins.

* * *

Syd stays alert and awake, and the sharp cramps stabbing at him do a good job of keeping him from nodding off. After about thirty minutes, Jesse comes through the door, closing it daintily behind him. His face is pale, his eyes wide as he takes in Syd’s appearance. Syd hasn’t had a chance to look at himself, but he supposes he must look a sight. 

Jesse pushes on the rag in Syd’s mouth, leaning in to murmur something at his ear. “I won’t tie these too tight.” He unties the ropes from the headboard, reknots them loosely in a way that binds Syd’s hands together, but not so tightly he can’t wriggle out with some effort. Jesse unties the ropes from Syd’s ankles. Blood begins to flow freely through his legs now, pins and needles circulating through his bloodstream.

_Free_. He chokes on a giddy laugh, staring down at his feet in disbelief. He wiggles his toes, rotates his ankles, trying to get the blood flowing faster and shake out the numbness.

Jesse gets his mouth close to Syd’s ear again. “Don’t let them get you in the trunk. When you get outside, run like hell.”

Syd turns his head and spits out the rag. “Won’t they just shoot me?”

“I don’t know, dude. Make sure they don’t.” Jesse seems to consider this, then he reaches into the back of his jeans. He’s holding the handgun Syd shot at the firing range, a Glock semi-auto. “Even the odds a little.”

“How many rounds?”

Jesse shrugs. “I just watched him put a new mag in.”

So, seventeen rounds, but Syd will play it safe and assume ten. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because this is fucked up, and I don’t want you to die. Now shut up and play along.” 

“Button my jeans first,” Syd whispers. “If I’m going to run.”

“Right.” Jesse gets Syd’s jeans zipped and buttoned. Syd tests the ropes around his wrists. The original knots are tight, but the knot joining the two is amateur’s work. He rotates a wrist inside the rope, the tender skin scraping and chafing against the rough fibers. Can he wriggle out of it by the time they force him into the trunk? Doubtful. 

Syd suspects Reb and Derek will want to shoot him someplace desolate where the crack of a shotgun won’t alert the neighbors. If he runs just outside of the apartment, would they risk gunning him down in the quiet neighborhood? Syd has no idea, but waiting to escape at a secondary location seems like an even stupider plan.

Will he even be _able_ to run on legs that haven’t touched ground in over twenty-four hours? Tentatively, he moves his legs off the edge of the bed. His socked feet touch the floor, and he finds they’re not as weak and wobbly as he feared. Adrenaline, perhaps, has given him a second wind.

Syd spots his Converse sneakers on the other side of the footboard. “I’ll need shoes if I’m going to run.” 

Jesse nods and fetches the shoes for him, sliding them onto Syd’s feet with delicacy. 

“You could be a shoe salesman,” Syd jokes, quiet.

“Yeah. I’m a regular Al Bundy.” Jesse’s shaking, his jittery fingers pulling the shoe’s tongues tight.

“Don’t tie them as loose as you did my wrists, or I’m in trouble.”

“I know, I know,” Jesse whispers. He wraps the long laces around Syd’s ankles before tying them in a decent knot. The last thing Syd needs is to trip on the overly-long bows and eat shit. 

Jesse gets behind him and stuffs the gun into the back of Syd’s jeans, down the back of his underwear. The elastic band holds the gun in place, though Syd imagines enough nervous sweat might send the gun slipping down his pants. And he doesn’t even want to consider losing the thing while running.

He’s shaking as Jesse leads him out of the bedroom. Derek ducks back into the room to grab his shotgun, then jabs the barrel into Syd’s back. Heat spreads through Syd’s chest. Can Derek see the outline of the gun tucked into the back of Syd’s jeans? Maybe his T-shirt covers it. Fuck, and it’s a white shirt too, so the material is practically see-through. _Got to move fast._

Reb checks the windows before leading them out of the apartment. Syd’s hands are bound in front of him, which gives him an easier time navigating the knots. It’s freezing outside, at least for Syd, who left his black hoodie on the passenger seat of his car. Reb and Derek are wearing long coats to hide their artillery.

While Reb locks the door, Jesse and Derek push Syd in the direction of the complex parking lot. They can’t see his hands, and he hopes the darkness obscures any potential bulge the gun might be making. He unravels the knot Jesse made that once tied the two ropes together. Now each wrist has what amounts to a thick yarn bracelet around it, but nothing restricting his movement. If he can just tuck the slack of each rope into its respective hand…

“This way,” Derek says, nudging Syd in the direction of Reb’s car. Reb is parked near the side of the building. Two spots away from Reb’s car is the street entrance to the tiny parking lot, then the road Syd has driven along countless times before from school. He could make it to the school from here. Would any of the doors be unlocked? Impossible to say, but if he can get inside, call the police, and hide…

No time to think. _You’ve got to run now, while Reb’s still lagging behind! The question is: shoot or punch?_

Grabbing the gun out of his pants will take too long, Syd’s sure of it. He needs the element of surprise, since Derek and Reb are behind him and would see him reaching for a gun. 

So Syd pivots, turning around and coldcocking Derek with a punch he learned from watching action movies. His fist lands square against Derek’s jaw, and Derek goes down, giving a shout of angry surprise. Of course he’s surprised; he didn’t expect Syd to turn on him, not with the barrel of a shotgun poking into his back. 

This gives Syd a few extra seconds’ worth of a lead, seconds that may mean the difference between his survival and his bloody demise, and he goes running around the corner of the building, then he’s rushing down the sidewalk, past the apartment complex and the nearby ramshackle houses and the cars parked parallel on the street, and he hears Derek shouting, “Get the fucker!” and his own screaming into the dark night. 

Syd was never picked first in gym class, but when the coach made everyone run laps around the track, Syd’s long legs gave him an advantage most of the other kids didn’t have. He has never run for dear life, but he finds it’s just like regular running, with more adrenaline and laser-focus. One foot in front of the other. His fists are full of bunched rope. He can hear Reb and Derek clamoring behind him, sounding so close, and he runs faster, imagining the boom of a shotgun at any moment, the bullet finding his skull—

“You wanna play rough?” Derek shouts, some distance behind him. “We’ll fucking play rough!”

Syd slows just enough to fumble the Glock out of his pants. He passes one block, barely taking time to check the intersections for oncoming headlights before darting through. He keeps shrieking for help, screaming _please God won’t somebody call the police or the SWAT team or the goddamn Tanner High marching band,_ but he knows it’s a waste of breath. The inhabitants of these streets would write off a screaming teenager sprinting through the night as some kind of prank or drunken spring break hijinks. Stopping to bang on doors would be dangerous. He would no longer be a moving target, and if someone actually opened their door, they might become a victim as well. 

He clears one more block, then another, zigzagging between streets in hopes of losing his pursuers just a bit, then when his heart feels primed to explode like a pipe bomb in his chest, the beige stone edifice and green windows of the high school come into view. He’s approaching the building from the back, and he runs a quick analysis of his options. Taking the upper level gives him three potential doors to try: the main entrance, an exit near the band and shop classes, and another exit by the gymnasium. The lower level is something of a choke point, offering only the sole entrance to the commons.

He chooses the upper level, running through the empty teacher parking lot for the closest door: the exit near the weight room and gym lockers. Most of the entrance and exit doors in the school have metal push-bars, and these are no different.

He shoves his weight against the door, but it doesn’t give enough for him to bother with another push. _Keep moving, don’t stop and fuck around too long, or you’re dead._ He glances over his shoulder. His two pursuers ( _God, what happened to Jesse?)_ are thirty yards away, just now rounding the corner of the last intersection. _I can outrun them,_ Syd thinks, _but for how long?_

He goes for the next exit near the band practice room. His legs suddenly turn to rubber, and he collapses against the door as a cramp seizes him. “God, no,” he murmurs, shoving at the push-bar. “Please, just a break for your old pal…” He can feel the door has a tight lock and decides not to bother.

_Two down, two to go._

His calves throbbing horribly, Syd runs around to the main entrance. These are double doors, held together with more chains, but these doors have green-tinted glass windows, windows he might have to break. With what, however, remains to be seen. He expects the main entrance might be locked more tightly than the other doors, and he’s right on the mark on that one. He pounds a fist against the glass, though he doesn’t intend to break it. He briefly considers shooting the window, but he doesn’t want to waste a bullet if he doesn’t have to.

_One more shot, I’m putting all my chips in on this one._

Syd hurries to the lower level, assuring himself this will be the one, even if he has to kick his goddamn foot through the glass. The commons area is rife with windows, and if he can’t manage the door… 

The cafeteria doors are held shut with loose, ropey chains. Syd slams into them, hopefully with enough force to wedge it open, just wide enough to slip through. He sobs with relief when the doors buckle and create an opening. It’s too small to fit through just yet, but with a little more force…

He tucks the gun into his waistband so he can use all his strength to push at one of the metal doors, trying to create a gap big enough for him to fit through. The school was remodeled just four years ago, with the cafeteria, main entrance, and halls getting a modern face-lift, the school’s first renovation since its construction in the 1970s. If these goddamn newfangled doors are what get Syd killed after all the shit he’s been through—

_God, give me a fucking break, please!_

The door slips forward, clanging against the loose chains, and Syd almost stumbles. A triumphant laugh erupts from his throat, and he begins to shake as he carefully steps over the tangle of chains and into the gap between the doors. He staggers inside the cafeteria and slams the doors shut behind him. Not that this will really stop the Dipshit Duo, but any obstacle placed in their path means more time for Syd to stay alive.

For the briefest moment, all the shock and exhaustion of the last day seem to catch up to him. His legs buckle and he falls to his knees, almost greying out. _Get up get up you dumb shit!_ But he can’t. It’s all he can do to just stay there and catch his breath for a while. 

A cannon-blast of a gunshot explodes one of the cafeteria windows. Syd jumps back, falling onto his ass, the Glock biting into his tailbone. He pedals back, back, on the linoleum floor until he manages to push himself up. Reb and Derek will have to crawl through the blown-out window, and Syd’s happy to take any millisecond of advantage he’s given. He dashes through the cafeteria, his aches long forgotten, and weaves through the round tables and plastic chairs.

In a move he would have criticized if watching a horror film, he takes the stairs, but in his defense there’s nowhere else to go on the lower level save for a small auditorium and some bathrooms. _You can’t play hide-and-seek forever with these psychos. There’s two of them, and only one of you. You’re outgunned for sure. What now?_

A phone. From the stairs it’s a quick jaunt to the library, but before he’s even up the staircase he knows the doors will be locked. He hits the last stair, and his heart falls dead in his chest. Locked, of course. _If I survive this somehow, I’m suing the fuck out of this school._

He passes the library and turns a corner, running through the school’s main hallway. Would pulling the fire alarm get the police over here? Well, it worked in _Die Hard_ , and Syd’s already thinking of channeling a bit of John McClane’s ingenuity. Life imitates art, right? Or maybe it’s the other way round.

Syd grabs the nearest fire alarm and pulls with all he’s got. The alarm begins to scream. Syd hopes it goes on blaring long enough to get _someone_ out here. Maybe the threat of an approaching fire truck or police car will scare Reb and Derek off. It’s a distraction, at least, something to keep them occupied—and, if they can’t turn it off, a blanket of sound to muffle any noises Syd makes.

He heads toward the pair of bathrooms near the rear of the school. He pushes his way into the girls’ room, simply because it seems like the opposite of what his pursuers would expect him to do. The restroom is all ugly marble and drywall, with dark purple stalls. He stands on a toilet tank and climbs his way onto the top of a stall. He stands with his legs spread, one shoe planted on opposite sides of the stall. His six-foot-three height is a blessing here, allowing him to push at the ceiling tiles. Could he feasibly crawl through either the air ducts or the ceiling floorboards, and make his way into the library? He has no idea. This is the kind of thing that would work flawlessly in a movie. A big school like this ought to have a large duct system. The exterior of the school may have gotten a facelift, but he doubts the inner guts were remodeled, too. It could work.

As he’s pushing the lightweight tile aside, the angry blare of the fire alarm comes to a sudden halt. _No choice now_. He’s not getting gunned down in the girls’ bathroom at his shitty school. No way. Syd hoists himself up, and a current of pain racks through him, so sharp and intense he fears he’s caught fire. His fractured breastbone and the weary muscles in his shoulders scream out in tandem. Stars explode behind his eyes, and Syd drops from above. His hands scrabble for purchase on the open lip of the ceiling, but he’s already falling too fast. He catches the top edge of the stall, and his knees bang against the wall. 

Through the pain, Syd quickly shuts the stall door and turns the latch. Could someone have heard him fall? He crouches on the toilet seat, keeping his legs and feet out of view from beneath the stall door. He retrieves the gun from his waistband, and he waits. He winds the hanging ends of rope around his forearms to create makeshift gauntlets, then he tucks in the ends of the ropes to keep their long tails from being grabbed in a scuffle. Within seconds, Syd is covered in a thick glaze of sweat. 

He can hear noise from the men’s room. He could try to run now, to sneak out while either Reb or Derek ( _or both_ , he thinks with a shudder) is busy looking for him next door, but no, that’s too risky. While he may feel like a sitting duck here, it’s possible they don’t know he’s armed. He supposes he could take one of them out through this element of surprise, but could he manage both? 

He doesn’t have to wonder for long. The women’s room door swings open. Syd holds his breath. A bead of sweat trickles between his shoulder blades. He hears footsteps. One pair or two? He can’t tell. 

“I know you’re in here,” Derek says, sing-song, with a grin in his voice. His shadow crosses the tiny slivers in the stall door. One pair of black boots. One long coat. 

Syd kicks open the stall door. The door bangs into Derek’s face. “fuck!” he howls, stumbling back. Syd rolls underneath the stall, moving toward the exit. 

Derek shoves the stall door closed. He has a bloody mustache on his upper lip. Red droplets trickle from his nose. He raises his shotgun. 

Syd aims for Derek’s knee and pulls the trigger. The gun pops like a firework. Derek screams, dropping to one knee on the tile floor like a sack of bricks. He still has the shotgun in one hand, the other clasped over his ruined, bloody knee. Syd charges and tackles him all the way to the ground. 

Derek uses the shotgun like a battering ram, crashing the butt into Syd’s nose. Syd hears the crunch, but he’s running on adrenaline now, and the blow barely fazes him. Syd smashes the butt of his own gun into Derek’s mouth. He feels teeth give way. Derek spits a mouthful of blood into Syd’s face. His right arm flails with the shotgun, fingers groping to squeeze the trigger. Even with the wild recoil, he won’t miss at this distance. His hand is clutched around the grip like some hateful clinging creature. If Syd has to pry it out of Derek’s hand by breaking all five of his fingers, he will do it with a smile.

It turns out Syd has an easier way of getting Derek to surrender the shotgun. He simply shoots a hole through Derek’s hand.

“fuuuuuuuuuck!” Derek screams. “ _you fucking piece of shit little faggot i’ll kill you_!”

Syd grabs the shotgun out of Derek’s ruined hand. “No, you won’t.” Syd rises, tucks the Glock back into his pants. Using the sawed-off shotgun like a golf driver, he swings the butt between Derek’s open legs and hits paydirt. Derek shrieks like a cat being skinned. “Where’s Reb?”

“Oh, he’s around,” Derek says through a gritted mouthful of blood. “He’ll blow your fucking head off, and we’ll take turns skullfucking what’s left of it.”

“But _I’m_ the faggot?” Syd kicks Derek’s busted hand with the toe of his shoe. Derek cries out, and Syd could do with hearing that again. “You slut, you love this,” Syd says with a grin. He feels the wet trickle of blood over his lips and the sharp throbs of pain in his nose.

Syd steps over Derek, looking down at him the way Jason Voorhees might observe a naked camper before lopping off their head with a machete. Blood sheets down the lower half of Derek’s face. There’s a bullet hole in the left knee of his black pants, and a hole through his right hand. 

A dark part of Syd likes what he sees. In a movie, this would be the scene where Derek gives the “we’re not so different after all” speech, and Syd blows his head off to shut him up and perhaps prove his point. Syd’s fingers itch around the grip of the shotgun. He should just do it, right? Blast Derek to kingdom come like the demons on a _Doom_ map. Who would care? Derek’s parents? Fuck them; they did a shitty job of raising him if he turned out like this. The world would be better off without him.

Syd watches Derek bleed in slick red puddles on the tile. The coppery scent sticks in his throat, along with his own blood.

“You fucking pussy,” Derek says, laughing. He coughs and spits a blood loogie that hits the leg of Syd’s black jeans. “Go on and kill me. Finish the job.”

Syd aims his own blood spitball at Derek’s face. Bullseye. “No, you goddamn piece of punk ass shit. You’ve had your last good day, and that’s why I’m letting you live.” Syd swings the shotgun again, pulling the blow a little at the last second. Derek’s jaw cracks. Syd wants to do it again, and harder.

* * *

Syd emerges from the bathroom with a terrifying certainty that Reb will be right outside. He will see the black hole of Reb’s shotgun barrel on the other side of the door, and Syd’s head will evaporate in a burst of red mist.

But the hallways are empty. He leaves Derek lying in his own blood on the floor of the girls’ restroom. Syd uses the bottom of his T-shirt to stanch the flow of blood from his nose. He doesn’t want to leave an easy-to-follow trail for Reb, not when he’s still trying to find his bearings.

The pain of every bump, bruise, and laceration creeps up on Syd now, and just outside of the gymnasium he suffers his first near-fainting spell. He has to lean against the wall while the world greys out for a moment. 

He keeps his brain active by considering more options: he could make it to the library, blow open the windows on the doors, reach around and unlock them. He could call for help using one of the phones inside. It seems like the logical, smart move, but Syd is running on vengeance now, and vengeance knows no logic, only the hot undercurrent of emotion. 

_Find Reb first_. The dark clouds in Syd’s vision begin to ebb. He ignores the flares of pain ripping through him and keeps moving. His nosebleed is no longer a gush but a slow trickle. Syd lets his shirt fall free, and there’s a huge dark stain against the white material, with little flecks of clotted blood inside like amoebas.

He pulls another fire alarm as he goes, creating another beacon to bring help. He hasn’t heard any sirens yet, but a macabre, bloodthirsty part of him _wants_ Reb to know the stakes have changed. _Derek’s busted out, Reb old pal, and now it’s just you and me, the dealer in this devil’s game. You shouldn’t have bet against the house._

Syd makes it to the main hallway. He looks left, right, decides against using the west entrance to leave here and be done with this. No, he’s going to give Reb a taste of his own goddamn medicine. 

The school has become a labyrinth at night, but Syd has the homefield advantage. He knows this place inside and out. While Reb may have matriculated here, his last class in the halls of Tanner High was years ago, and time erodes the memory. Syd slinks through the halls, passing the social studies classes, the math rooms, the science labs. If all the doors are locked, and Syd supposes they must be, there is no place for Reb to hide outside of the downstairs cafeteria. Maybe Reb hightailed it out of the school after the second fire alarm, deciding he didn’t want to bet against the house after all. 

There are surveillance cameras in the cafeteria, however. Does he want to go back down there and risk performing his attack on Reb in front of those cameras? He doesn’t plan on killing either of them—he left Derek alive but immobile—but if things go south and he has to kill Reb, the surveillance video might call Syd’s intentions into question. He can hear the interrogation now: _You had a shotgun and a handgun. You neutralized one threat. Why not find a safe room and call for help? Why seek out Reb?_

Syd doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of his intentions, but he’d rather not get thrown in prison on a bullshit technicality. Despite how often revenge fantasies are glorified in movies and television, it seems there’s a zero-tolerance policy on smacking bullies around in schools _and_ real life. Neither Reb nor Derek are worth losing a happily-ever-after with Taehyun. 

So he doesn’t go downstairs. Instead, he supposes Reb ought to come to him. He passes the wall of science classrooms and approaches the library doors. He stands back, pumps the shotgun with one hand like an action hero. He fires into a window. The glass shatters, the sound melding with the screech of the fire alarm to form a brief cacophony. The recoil of the gun jerks Syd’s wrists, and his hands are bleeding from their proximity to the muzzle. Syd reaches through the open window and feels for the lock on the other side of the door. He flips the latch, and the door opens smoothly. He props the door open on its rubber kickstand, as if in invitation.

He _could_ call 9-1-1 now, give his location and leave the line open as insurance against any claims of premeditation. But what would happen if the authorities arrive too early and grab Reb before he ever makes it into the library? Syd has no intentions of turning the piñata over until he’s had a couple good whacks at it himself.

He kneels behind a towering shelf of books and waits. How many rounds does he have left in the shotgun? Three, maybe, if the capacity is five, subtracting his most recent shot and the one that shattered the cafeteria windows. That shot could have come from Reb’s gun, but Syd prefers to err on the side of caution. Three shots should be enough, but he’s got eight left in the Glock, just in case. 

The sheen of sweat that dried on his skin seems to melt, coating him all over again. He licks dried blood off his lips and watches the library entrance, hoping the noise and the open door will coax Reb inside. Though, if Reb has already discovered what became of Derek, he might think twice about coming in. Or maybe he’ll just stroll on in, assuming Derek is in here.

In this short period of immobility, Syd is aggrieved by another bout of lightheadedness. His bent knees ache. His empty stomach rumbles. His parched tongue thirsts for a drink. His busted nose throbs. _We’re in the endgame now. Can’t you hold on for a little while longer? Just hold on, and either the cavalry or Reb will come through that door._

He steadies the short barrel of the shotgun against one of the lower shelves, hiding the muzzle between stacks of books. He thinks about Reb, about Derek, about how they used to fucking be his _friends_ , and a wave of despair crashes over him. Did they kill Jesse for aiding Syd’s escape? Maybe not. They planned to kill Syd in an abandoned, open area where the crack of a gunshot would not be heard by nosy neighbors; shooting Jesse in the middle of an apartment complex parking lot would be foolish, and there would be no time to hide the body, not when Syd was running down the streets screaming his head off.

Syd feels a twinge of relief at the idea that Jesse may have survived. Life is random and cruel, but Syd doesn’t think he could bear the cruelty of a world that punished Jesse for doing the right thing. Sure, it took him some time to come around, but a last-minute heel-face turn is better than none at all. 

Footsteps approach the library. Syd holds his breath.

“I’m going to enjoy killing you, Syd,” Reb says into the silence. “Why don’t you give yourself up, and I’ll make it quick?”

Syd says nothing, perfecting his aim with the hidden shotgun. If he remembers correctly, Reb has a double-barrel, which can only fire two shots before the shooter must break the barrel open, insert new rounds, and close the action. This window of time could give Syd an opening for a really good shot, but he’ll have to avoid the prior two shots first. The sight has been sawed off of Syd’s pump-action. He could use the Glock for better accuracy, but from this distance the stopping power of that shot would prove problematic with a handgun. 

“Not gonna show yourself, huh?” Reb says. “Fine. I’ll start shooting.”

Like Han Solo in the Mos Eisley cantina, Syd shoots first. His shot goes wild, blasting apart one of the tall plastic dividers near the entrance. Reb jerks from the sound of the report and fires into the bookshelf. The shot flies above Syd’s head, close enough to make his hair jump. Something white-hot scrapes the top of his scalp. 

Syd dives further into the library, reloading the shotgun with another pump as he goes. The top of his head is warm and wet. He must have caught a buckshot pellet.

A second blast explodes the edge of the bookshelves where Syd is hiding. The wood splinters, and fragments lodge into Syd’s shoulder. Syd feels each individual stab of debris, but this is his moment now. Reb has to reload.

Syd pops out from behind the bookshelf like a target in a shooting gallery. He fires, missing again. The shot skims past Reb’s side and makes his coat flutter. Reb ducks out of sight, hiding behind a table and chairs as he reloads.

_Fuck me, this goddamn shotgun’s giving me Stormtrooper aim. I need to get closer, but every inch makes each shot that much more dangerous._

Of course Reb and Derek would have better accuracy with their modified guns; they’ve spent the last three months getting used to the recoil and learning how to sight using the end of the barrel. If Syd can get close enough, though…

He ducks behind another bookcase, moving east, in the direction of the desk Reb’s using for cover. Blood sheets down Syd’s face, and he wipes it out of his eyes with a shaking hand. His nose has begun to drip again. _Too much blood_ , he thinks. _I might pass out if I’m not careful._

Reb clicks the action back into place and opens fire. Syd hits the ground, lying flat as two shots ring out above him. After the blast of the second shot, Syd leaps to his feet.He rushes the table where Reb is hiding, pumps a shot into the chamber, and squeezes the trigger.

Gouts of blood and flesh burst from Reb’s shoulder, and he goes down screaming, “you motherfucker!” He aims the shotgun at Syd and works the trigger, forgetting he has already expelled his two shots. _Click. Click._

“Out of ammo?” Syd asks, before kicking the shotgun out of Reb’s hands with his shoe. The gun skitters across the ugly tan carpet of the library. Reb lies on his back, a hand clasped over his bleeding shoulder. Red streaks pour through the gaps between his fingers, pooling on the carpet.

“You gonna kill me?” Reb asks, like the idea itself is amusing.

“I’m going to give you what you deserve.” Syd brings the buttplate of the shotgun down between Reb’s legs. Reb clenches a scream of agony behind his teeth, snarling in a raving mad grimace. His green eyes are wide with fascination and horror. Syd swings the gun again, aiming for Reb’s face this time. Reb tries to turn away from the impact, but the butt of the gun catches the side of his mouth. A stream of blood gushes out, and he makes a coughing-choking sound.

“It’s alright,” Syd coos in a fake, sugary tone of reassurance. “It’s just bigger than what you’re used to, huh?” He doubts if Reb even remembers saying that to him, and acid burns in Syd’s gut.

“Pathetic.” Reb laughs, tiny aspirated blood drops flecking on his chin. “You can’t even kill me.”

“You want it too much. It’s a turn-off.” Syd moves across the room, stepping around Reb, who lies on the floor moaning like a man having a bad dream. Perhaps he is. When Reb woke up this morning, did he consider today would end with him lying in a pool of his own blood while a fire alarm rang into oblivion?

Syd picks up the stray shotgun on his way to the empty librarian’s desk. He thinks about the carnage he has caused here and feels like he’s just bowled a 300 game. He picks up the phone at the desk and dials 9-1-1.


	9. Blame (March 1999 - Part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's sort of weird and artsy, but it serves as a bridge between the events of the previous chapter and the next, as well as a showcase of how the media's biased narrative begins to develop around events like this.

* * *

Partial transcript of a 911 Emergency call placed March 12th, 9:14:47 p.m., by Jesse Browsky:

Dispatcher: Denver County 9-1-1.

Browsky: Uh, hi, I just got beat up, and my friend is being chased by two guys with guns. 

Dispatcher: What’s your location?

Browsky: I’m at the [redacted] Apartments on Manes Avenue. He’s running away on this street, I think?

Dispatcher: You said your friend is being chased? 

Browsky: Uh-huh.

Dispatcher: Is he on foot or in a vehicle?

Browsky: On foot. All of them are on foot.

Dispatcher: And there are two people chasing him?

Browsky: Yeah, hurry. They’re going to kill him.

Dispatcher: They have guns?

Browsky: Yeah, both of them. I gave my friend a gun—his name is Syd Reed, he’s been missing since yesterday. Can you hurry? I’m scared.

Dispatcher: Are you in a safe place?

Browsky: Yeah, I’m hiding in some guy’s apartment. He let me in when I asked to use a phone.

Dispatcher: Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?

Browsky: I think so. They beat me up pretty bad.

Dispatcher: Okay, we’ve got help on the way. You said they’re heading down Manes Avenue?

Browsky: Yeah, like, towards the high school, I think. At least, he turned the corner and headed that way.

* * *

Partial transcript of a Denver County dispatch channel, March 12th, 9:45:15 p.m.:

Dispatcher: … Fire alarm at Tanner High School, 6201 [redacted] Street, building is possibly empty.

[unintelligible]

Battalion 4: We’re sending Engine 15.

Dispatcher: Ten-four.

Engine 15: Engine 15 en route. 9:24.

* * *

Partial transcript of a 911 Emergency call placed March 12th, 9:57:20 p.m., by Sydney Reed:

Dispatcher: Denver County 9-1-1.

Reed: I’m at Tanner High School. I’m in the library. I, uh, kind of broke in to hide from two psychos with guns. My name is Syd Reed, I think my mom reported me missing.

Dispatcher: Tanner High School. Okay. 

Reed: Can you send some cops and a couple ambulances? The two guys who tried to kill me are probably bleeding to death. And, uh, I’m not doing too hot either.

Dispatcher: Have you been shot?

Reed: I think so. They held me in their apartment for two days. I’m—

Dispatcher: Do you need a fire truck? I hear the fire alarm going off.

Reed: No, just the cops and paramedics. I think—Hey! I said stay the fuck down!

Dispatcher: Is someone there with you?

Reed: One of the guys who shot me. I got their weapons. Do you want me to come out of the school? I don’t know if I can make it. I’m bleeding a lot.

Dispatcher: No, you can stay where you are, if you’re somewhere safe. Let the officers come to you. Will you stay on the line with me until the officers show up?

Reed: Sure. [coughs] My fucking chest.

Dispatcher: What happened to your chest?

Reed: One of them cracked it. Tore my fucking nipple off, too.

Dispatcher: When was this? Inside the school?

Reed: No, they had me in their apartment. I escaped and tried to hide in the school.

* * *

Excerpt from a news item in the Denver _Post_ , March 13th, 1999:

_Teen Escapes After Two Nights of Terror_

After 26 hours of horror at the hands of two acquaintances, 16-year-old Sydney Reed was transported to Denver Health Medical Center last night after escaping an abduction. The two suspects, 18-year-old Derek Pierce and 21-year-old Ethan Bennet, are recovering at Saint Joseph Hospital from injuries sustained during their altercation with Reed.

Reed is still recovering from his injuries and has been unable to speak to authorities. He is expected to make a full recovery.

* * *

Excerpt from a news item in the Denver _Post_ , March 14th, 1999:

_Suspect Confesses to Denver Teen Torture, Captivity_

Ethan Bennet, 21, admitted to police that he took part in the gruesome day-long captivity and torture of Sydney Reed, 16, which occurred at Bennet’s residence on Manes Avenue. While recovering at Saint Joseph Hospital, Bennet confessed to numerous acts of torture, including forced sexual acts and bodily mutilation. Bennet recorded scenes of Reed’s torture on video tape; according to police, both Bennet and his accomplice, Derek Pierce, 18, can be seen on the tapes stabbing Reed with knives and burning him with cigarettes. 

During an attempt to transport Reed, the teen escaped and took refuge at Tanner High School, where an armed confrontation broke out between Bennet, Pierce, and Reed. In the conflict, Reed suffered non-life-threatening injuries. Bennet sustained a gunshot to the right shoulder. Pierce was shot in the left knee and right hand. 

Sheriff John Searle said Bennet and Pierce are both charged with multiple counts of rape, assault, and attempted murder.

* * *

Excerpt from a news item in the Denver _Post_ , March 15th, 1999:

_Second Suspect in Teen Torture Case Claims “Brainwashing”_

Derek Pierce, charged with multiple counts of rape, assault, and attempted murder in connection with the torture of 16-year-old Sydney Reed, claims through his attorney that he was “brainwashed” and “groomed” by Ethan Bennet, who confessed on Sunday to various acts of torture against Reed. While Pierce can be seen on video tapes participating in the torture, a series of court-ordered psychological tests are underway to determine the state of Pierce’s mental health at the time. The doctors who examine Pierce could conclude that the teen acted under duress or in an otherwise altered state that made him unable to determine right from wrong.

* * *

Excerpt from a news item in the _Rocky Mountain News_ , March 16th, 1999:

_Friends of Teen Torture Suspects Speak Out_

New information is emerging after two suspects were charged with multiple counts of torture and the attempted murder of Sydney Reed, 16. Ethan Bennet, 21, and Derek Pierce, 18, are both jailed on $1 million bond, waiting to appear in court. 

“Syd is just a nice, fun kid. I can’t imagine why anyone—especially people who were supposed to be his friends—would want to hurt him,” said Reed’s friend Carrie Brown.

Acquaintances of the suspects came forward to share their experiences. “[Bennet] was kind of a weird guy,” said a co-worker at Joker’s Wild Pizza, who wishes to remain anonymous. “He would make jokes about, like, cannibalism and killing people, but I never thought he was serious about it. About a month ago, we had a girl from the high school who started training here, but she quit because she said he was ‘really rapey.’”

During the police search of Bennet’s apartment, they found “walls of video tapes, mostly blood and gore films. Not just ‘Halloween’, but the ‘video nasties’ kind of stuff,” said Officer Randy Gardner, who took part in the raid on Friday night. Bennet’s bookshelves were filled with books about serial killers and mass murderers. His stereo had a Marilyn Manson CD inside.

Accounts of Derek Pierce’s behavior prior to the incident reveal warning signs that were never heeded. At 16, Pierce was caught breaking into a van and was sent to a juvenile diversion program, which included the stipulation that the youth would not be allowed to own a gun. 

A teacher from Tanner High School recalled some of Pierce’s writing assignments: “He would turn in very graphic, violent stories. The details were very disturbing, and when he turned in these assignments I wouldn’t grade them until we sat down and talked about them. He always said they were just stories, and his parents didn’t seem too concerned about it.”

“Derek and Syd were part of the outcasts,” said Nate Mears, a classmate and football player at Tanner High. “Goths, gays, just a group of weird kids who don’t fit in with anybody else. They’re the kind of guys who just hate everybody. They got picked on for their clothes and music. Derek smelled like pot all the time. But Syd was a fucking psycho. He threatened to stab me and rip out my guts. So I’m not really shocked something like this happened with those guys.”


	10. Adios (April 1999)

_"How can I be substantial if I do not cast a shadow? I must have a dark side also if I'm to be whole." -_ Carl Jung, _Modern Man in Search of a Soul_

* * *

_April 9th, 1999_

In the days following the incident, the story trickles out in pieces; Taehyun gathers them up like a sparrow building a nest. Syd, of course, wants nothing to do with the whole affair, remaining tight-lipped on the matter when he isn't speaking with investigators and police officials. Taehyun didn’t want to upset Syd by prying, so he tracked down news articles to complete the puzzle for himself.

What he finds paints a rather typical picture of aberrant psychology turned violent. As Taehyun suspected, Derek and Reb were troubled, dangerous individuals. Various media pieces shovel the blame for the duo’s acts onto rock music, the goth subculture, bullying, and violent movies—which strikes Taehyun as offensively strange at best, and at worst, an exoneration of the offenders’ culpability. 

The part of the story that interests Taehyun the most, however, is the violence that took place inside the school. Somehow, Syd managed to outlast and outwit two armed assailants, and it is this sensational morsel that the media has latched onto with fervor. Security footage from the school’s cafeteria shows Syd stumbling inside for sanctuary, running further inside the school, and then the appearance of the gunmen. 

An episode of _20/20_ aired shortly after the arrest of Derek and Reb included police footage taken in the aftermath: a removed ceiling panel in a school bathroom, and the bloody outline where Derek had fallen; the library windows blasted out; bookshelves and tables with bullet holes; the red, human-shaped stain on the carpet where Reb had surrendered. Snippets of Syd’s 9-1-1 call were played and scrutinized; TV journalist Nancy Grace, for example, considered Syd “just as unhinged as the other two” for his calm demeanor during the call.

“The fact is,” Grace ranted on her show, “this kid played Rambo with his abductors, and he’s cool as a cucumber with the dispatcher. You can hear him yell at one of them—Bennet, is it?—to stay down while he’s on the line. He had two shotguns and a handgun on him. He’s no innocent little lamb. At that point, he’s not a victim anymore.”

The startled-looking female psychologist Nancy had on the show as a guest said, “Well, it’s just fact that everyone reacts to trauma differently. There is no ‘one size fits all’ response to serious psychological or physical trauma. And throwing accusations at a survivor like Syd Reed just creates more stigma against survivors who don’t respond the way we think they should.”

Nancy Grace brought up the Darlie Routier case in Texas as some sort of proof that paradoxical behavior after trauma points to guilt, but Taehyun had switched the channel by then. _Just the facts, ma’am_.

Regardless of the public’s perception of Syd’s actions, the state of Colorado never charged him with so much as trespassing. “The cops are humiliated,” Syd’s lawyer had explained to Misty at the hospital while Taehyun was in the room. “They wrote your son off as a runaway, and it came back to bite them in the ass. Denver PD wants to avoid a lawsuit. You could sell your story to the papers and expose how the cops dismissed Syd as a troublemaker who ran off.”

Misty had looked dazed. “You think I should sue the police department?”

“That’s up to you. All I’m telling you is what they’re afraid of. Imagine if you went on _Oprah_ and told the world about how the cops brushed your son off. If they had treated this like an actual abduction—which it was—the Feds would have gotten involved. They would have tapped your phone in case of a ransom call. When that call from your son came through, they could have traced it. A trace might have pointed them in the direction they should’ve been looking all along. And sure, they’ll claim there was no evidence of foul play at the time, but imagine the headlines and the gossip. Both suspects had rap sheets, and the cops knew it.”

To their credit, Reb and Derek haven’t tried to sue Syd for damages or their injuries. Taehyun supposes mounting a civil case would cost money neither of the two have, considering their reliance on court-appointed lawyers. With regard to legal trouble, it seems Syd is out of hot water for now.

Today, however, is Syd’s birthday, and Taehyun hopes they can all forget about the fuckery surrounding the family for one day.

School has resumed at Tanner High; cleaning crews came in over spring break and removed all traces of blood from the bathroom and library. New windows have been installed in the cafeteria and library, and the library is temporarily closed until the bullet-ridden bookshelves are replaced. But Taehyun has seen the police walkthrough footage, and being inside this school puts him on edge now, knowing Syd almost died here. 

“How’s Syd doing?” Carrie asks him after their creative writing class. Syd has not returned to school since the incident; Taehyun collects his missed work, brings it home, and delivers it when Syd is finished. Syd’s final exams will be taken on Saturdays next month. The school faculty is being surprisingly accommodating towards him, though Taehyun thinks they’re acting out of fear of a lawsuit from Misty, rather than any real goodwill toward Syd.

“He’s recovering,” Taehyun says. He’s reluctant to say Syd is _okay_ , because waking up screaming and sweating in the middle of the night is by no means a sign of being okay. But it doesn’t seem appropriate to share something like that, even with Carrie. “Healing.”

“Does he remember seeing me at the hospital?” Carrie had stopped by Denver Health Medical Center as soon as she could; Syd had still been somewhat doped up on pain medication for his cracked sternum and other healing injuries. “I’ve wanted to come by the house, but I don’t know…” She trails off, but Taehyun knows what she’s thinking: _I don’t know if he wants to see me._

“He doesn’t hold anything against you. You had nothing to do with this.”

Carrie shrugs. “Guilty by association, right?”

“I don’t think he sees it that way. I know I don’t.” Taehyun offers a smile. He wonders if she’s grappling with the possibility that it could have been her tied to that bed, had her parents not taken her along on vacation. If Derek had asked Carrie to take part in his film instead of Syd… 

Carrie stops at her locker, spins the dial, and opens the door. She takes a small wrapped package from inside and hands it to Taehyun. “Can you give this to him? It’s his birthday today, right?”

Taehyun says that he will. “You should come by the house tonight. He’ll be happy to see you.”

“Maybe. My parents are kind of freaked out right now. It’s a wonder they let me go to school without a bodyguard.”

After his psychology class, Taehyun gathers Syd’s missed work from the teacher and hurries to his locker. He packs up in a rush, hoping to catch Jesse before he leaves school grounds. Jesse has avoided Taehyun, Syd, and even Carrie since the incident, and while Taehyun understands the motivations behind that, he still wants to set things right. He slings his backpack over his shoulder and hurries downstairs, through the cafeteria and across the parking lot to the senior smoke-pit, where Jesse often loiters while waiting for his mother to pick him up. Jesse is already there, but when he sees Taehyun approaching, he tries to make a run for it.

“Jesse! Don’t run away. I need to talk to you!” 

Jesse hesitates, and Taehyun catches up with him by one of the many park benches. 

Jesse glances away, probably looking for his mom’s mini-van circling the parking lot. “I don’t wanna talk about it. I already told my story to the cops a hundred times over.”

“I know. I’m not mad at you. Neither is Syd. You helped save his life. You might be the reason he’s alive at all. You have nothing to be scared of.”

“I feel so fucking _bad_ ,” Jesse whimpers. “And I know I shouldn’t, ‘cause Syd went through way more than me, but—” He stops suddenly, tears trickling down his cheeks. “I could have helped him earlier, but I didn’t, ‘cause I was scared and pissed off at him for stupid shit.”

Taehyun shakes his head. “But you _did_ help him in the end.”

“Syd warned me about them, but I was too mad and too dumb to listen. Does he hate me? No, no, don’t tell me.” 

“He doesn’t hate you. I promise. Why don’t you come over later? It’s his birthday.”

Jesse blinks. “Oh, I—I don’t have a gift.”

“Friendship can be its own gift,” Taehyun says, and if Syd were here, he would make a crack about how that sounds like something out of a fortune cookie. The thought of their familiar banter warms him from the inside out. 

Syd pulls up in his gray Prelude. The driver’s window is rolled down, and Taehyun hears the pounding thrum of a Marilyn Manson song from inside. “Hey, handsome,” Syd says, sticking his head out the window. “How much for a blow job?”

Taehyun laughs. “More than you can afford!”

“Get in, fucker,” Syd teases, and Taehyun swings around the front of the car to the passenger side. Syd looks at Jesse, gives him a friendly wave. “Thanks for helping me out back there. I owe you big time.”

Jesse nods, looking nervous, like he still doesn’t think he’s off the hook for whatever imaginary sins he’s committed. “You—you cut your hair?”

“Thought it was time for a change.” Syd opted for a different style after his release from the hospital, his sandy hair short and spiky, no longer covering his ears. “You should come around sometime. I have a PlayStation.”

Jesse says he’ll think about it. Syd waves goodbye and drives toward home. 

Taehyun admires Syd’s profile, something he often does when they’re in the car together. Short hair looks good on him, accentuating his cheekbones and making him appear older somehow. “You’re in good spirits today,” Taehyun observes. 

“I’m celebrating. I never thought I’d make it to seventeen.”

Taehyun still isn’t sure how to respond when Syd says things like that. He has been ruminating, wondering what thoughts crawled in Syd’s head during those dark hours. 

It feels tasteless to bring up the whole affair, but on the other hand ignoring it seems worse, and Taehyun’s tired of dancing around the subject. “Did you ever—did you want them to kill you? Did it cross your mind at all?” 

“I’ve never wanted to live more than I did then. If only so I could fuck them up on my own terms. I think I called it ‘swinging at the piñata.’” Syd laughs, catches himself, glances at Taehyun. “I know, I know. But cracking jokes keeps me from crying. And if I start crying I may never stop.”

Syd has been taking a new route home from school lately, a route that entirely bypasses Reb’s old apartment building. This adds a few extra minutes to their journey, but Syd doesn’t mind, and Taehyun wouldn’t ask him to take the old route anyway.

“Someday I might have to thank them,” Syd says. “You only see how badly you want to live when you’re within arm’s reach of death.”

A wave of sadness washes over Taehyun, and he gently rests a hand on Syd’s knee.

There isn’t a big, elaborate surprise party waiting when they arrive home—just Misty, a cake, and a pile of presents. This is good enough for Syd; he has become more reclusive since the ordeal. On the bright side, his brush with death has earned him a larger haul of presents than he would have in a normal year. Even Brooks sends him a Philip K. Dick novel— _The Man in the High Castle_ —with a note that reads: _Thought you might enjoy this, with your weird fetish for German stuff. :P J/K, you’re a badass. Proud to call you my stepbro. Come visit sometime. - Brooks_

From his father, Syd receives a birthday card full of cash, almost a hundred dollars’ worth. The card is sappy and melodramatic, waxing poetic about how proud he is—standard Hallmark fare that Wade could never have come up with himself. In his typical fashion, he has underlined random words and written _Love, Dad_ at the bottom of the card. Syd gives him a B+ for effort, bumped up to an A- on account of the cash.

During the fallout, Wade flew in from Kansas City to visit Syd at the hospital. Wade was also responsible for hiring the family a competent lawyer to fend off any civil suits and accusations of wrongdoing. For all his faults, Dad came through in the clutch. 

Among the pile of gifts are packages from Syd’s Aunt Kathy ( _Pokemon Red_ for Game Boy), Uncle Tom (fifty bucks in a birthday card), and even a few relatives on his dad’s side who send twenties in cheap cards. Both sets of his grandparents send him giftcards. Carrie’s gift turns out to be _Parasite Eve_ for the PlayStation. Misty gives him _Silent Hill_. He’ll be playing video games for a while.

“You wanna see the cake, don’t you?” Misty says. “I know, it's amazing. Sometimes I even impress myself.” Displayed proudly on the kitchen counter is a three-tier cake with white frosting, blackberries, and a bevy of rainbow sprinkles. “Tae thought it needed more color.”

“He made the right call,” Syd says. “It looks awesome. Thanks.”

The three of them gather at the table for Syd’s birthday dinner: stuffed-crust pizza and breadsticks. He spikes his cherry Cokes with vodka, and occasionally sneaks his hand between Taehyun’s thighs. Taehyun struggles to hide his erection under the table.

Later, Syd’s lying in bed reading while Taehyun brushes his teeth. From the bed, Syd can see him standing at the sink. The gush of the faucet is faint, the bathroom door half-closed. Taehyun sticks his head out and asks, “So you had a good birthday?” before resuming brushing.

“Hell yeah. If I’d known all I had to do to be popular was almost get killed, I would’ve done it sooner.” Syd peers over the book, watching Taehyun rinse and spit. “Joking, of course.”

Since Syd’s ordeal, Taehyun has spent every night with him. Taehyun takes comfort in knowing Syd is beside him and hasn’t disappeared again. When Syd wakes up scared and disoriented, he probably finds Taehyun’s presence reassuring.

Taehyun slips into bed beside Syd, neatly plucking the book from his hands and placing it on the night table. Taehyun captures Syd’s mouth before he can protest, and Syd savors the minty taste of his lips and tongue. “Aren’t you wondering why you didn’t unwrap a gift from me?” Taehyun asks against Syd’s mouth.

“I figured it would be something like this.”

“Is that okay?” The last thing Taehyun wants is to be responsible for dredging up some awful memory. The other night, Arlene jumped onto the bed, her paws landing on Syd’s legs, and Syd woke up in such a fright it took fifteen minutes and half a hydrocodone to get him back to sleep.

“I’m not broken,” Syd says with a twinge of hurt. “God, if those two assholes ruined sex for me, I’ll kill myself.” Taehyun still doesn’t know if that’s a joke. “I’m still me, Tae. I guess I’m not a very good rape victim, but I’ll always want you.”

Taehyun pushes a hand underneath Syd’s T-shirt. His skin is warm and familiar. Taehyun thinks about touching Syd’s nipples but decides against it; one of them was reattached during Syd’s hospitalization, and while Taehyun hasn’t seen the nipple in question since, he imagines it might still be sore and unpleasant. Instead, his hand ventures down, slipping into Syd’s pajamas, pushing past the elastic of his underwear. His cock is half-hard already, and Syd groans when Taehyun wraps his fingers around it. His mouth gives warmth and reassurance over Syd’s own, his fingers tenting over the wet tip of Syd’s dick. Taehyun brushes his thumb over the faint circumcision scar, knowing the placement without even needing to look. And Syd always makes this light, almost breathless sound when Taehyun does it, like he’s still sensitive there.

Syd’s breathing hot and quick, but Taehyun goes slowly. He squeezes once, twice, and Syd moans and rolls his hips, and Taehyun’s trailing the thick vein down to where Syd’s balls are pulled tight against the base of his dick. “Fuck,” Syd groans. Taehyun’s hand squeezes, rolling one of Syd’s balls between his thumb and forefinger, and Syd quivers. _He’s enjoying this_ , Taehyun thinks with pride, watching precum ooze from the tip of Syd’s dick and trickle down the length of him. Taehyun licks his lips, wanting to feel the excited throb of blood between them.

Impatient, Taehyun goes down on him. Syd’s fingers curl in Taehyun’s hair, and his hips move like he’s trying to fuck Taehyun’s throat. Taehyun is practiced enough now that this no longer bothers him. Instead, he works with it, his head bobbing with the roll of Syd’s hips.

“Fuck, Tae, that’s so fucking good,” Syd moans, and Taehyun has to grind his hard-on into the mattress. Syd isn’t shy about moaning dirty praises, and hearing them always gets Taehyun excited. 

Taehyun draws back, letting Syd’s cock fall from his lips. “You like it?” Syd’s enjoyment is obvious, but maybe Taehyun likes hearing him say as much.

Syd grunts and tries to push his way back into Taehyun’s mouth. “You fuckin’ tease.” Taehyun gives him a squeeze, and Syd drops his head against the pillow, groaning up at the ceiling. Taehyun ruts against the mattress, squeaking out a whimper at the satisfying friction. “I’ll take care of you,” Syd promises. “Just don’t stop.”

Taehyun swallows him down again, and Syd’s making the hottest fucking noises. His hands, usually frantic and grabby, tug gently at Taehyun’s hair, coaxing and encouraging him rather than pulling. Taehyun works his lips around the hilt, his tongue flat, and Syd comes with a sharp whine that almost makes Taehyun come too.

“You suck cock like a pro,” Syd says, breathless. Taehyun blushes at the vulgarity of his phrasing, despite having performed the act just moments ago. Syd’s slumped against the pillows, his face flushed with exertion. In the moonlight, Taehyun sees the sheen of sweat glistening on Syd’s forehead.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Taehyun says. He scoots closer, sort of climbing into Syd’s lap. “With you, I mean.” He doesn’t want Syd getting jealous over some imaginary past lover.

Syd chuckles and gets a hand down Taehyun’s pajamas, then there’s a warm hand around his cock. Taehyun gasps. The sensation of someone else’s touch here is still fresh enough to send ripples of excitement through his nerves—or maybe those ripples are something only Syd can bring out of him. Taehyun presses his face into the slope of Syd’s neck and shoulder, clutching him close. He whimpers as he rocks his hips into the stroke of Syd’s hand. Syd’s touch is gentle and commanding all at once, and Taehyun lets himself go after about ten seconds. He moans a satisfied noise in Syd’s ear.

“I know, I’m awesome at hand jobs,” Syd jokes. “I’ve had a lot of practice too. Mostly on myself.”

Taehyun snickers and holds him tighter. “Lucky for me.” He says nothing when Syd wipes his hand on the inside of Taehyun’s briefs, but he does make a tiny noise when he feels the faint grate of stubble against his chin.

“Your birthday’s coming up…” Syd observes, nuzzling and kissing Taehyun’s neck, his chin, his jaw. “Tradition dictates we smoke a huge fucking bowl.”

“Is that an American thing?”

“No, dude, your birthday is 4/20, the annual pot-smoking day. We would be remiss if you didn’t take at least one huge bong rip on your birthday. Either that, or celebrate Hitler. It’s his birthday too.”

Taehyun rolls his eyes. “I’ll take the weed, if you don’t mind.”

“Good choice. Anything else? I’ll even grace the public with my presence, just for you.” Since his release from the hospital, Syd has remained within the four walls of the Reed home, refusing to venture out to the video shop, restaurants, even the arcade. His only excursions into the outside world are his trips to the school to drop off and pick up Taehyun. With the press surrounding the case and how little Syd wants to rehash all the gory details, his reclusiveness is probably a wise choice.

“What’s the restaurant you told me about with the waterfall?”

Syd laughs. “Casa Bonita? Of course you’d say that. And fuck yes, we can go there. It’ll be awesome.” He sighs, his hands skimming up Taehyun’s T-shirt and along his spine. Taehyun settles in, his head lying on Syd’s chest, where his heartbeat is tapering to a slower, resting rhythm. If there were raindrops tapping on the windows, they would have the perfect nighttime ambience.

But this, Taehyun thinks as he dozes off, is nice too.

* * *

Syd’s Journal - April 17th, 1999

_HO-LEE SHIT. Bust out the vodka—Tae, if you’re still nosing around in here ;-)—’cause this one’s a doozy. I’m a little drunk myself, but it’s the only way I can let this crazy shit out of its room in the back of my mind. It feels easier this way, I guess._

_I’m not gonna write about what happened to me in that bedroom or the school. The news and talk shows are doing a great job of that, along with a smear campaign against goths, guns, rock music, and violent games. (FUCKERS!) The papers just want an easy target to point a finger at and say “this is why,” except they’re missing vital parts of the story. Stuff I didn’t even know until tonight. But I think I can piece things together._

_So tonight was senior prom night, or it would have been for Carrie if she gave a fuck about preppy shit like that. Instead, she asked me to come over and hang out. Her parents are scared about letting her go out alone, especially with one of “those goth kids” (me). I guess I can’t blame them, since Carrie was kinda-sorta dating Derek before shit hit the fan. Anyway, we ordered a pizza and hung out in her room playing GoldenEye._

_If anyone would have known the motivations behind Derek’s crazy bullshit, it would be Carrie. She knew him better than any of us, except Reb. Since she was out of town at the time of the “incident,” she wasn’t considered a suspect. The cops interviewed her, but they didn’t grill her. If they had…_

_Carrie told me she believes Derek’s tale about how he was “manipulated” and “groomed” into being a psycho. At least, she buys the part that Reb had a pretty tight hold on Derek. The sob story part doesn’t quite wash, according to her, because she’s sure Derek was a willing participant._

_Even back when I had my “date” with Carrie in October, she’d said Derek was more interested in Reb than her. She said they would go off and shoot fireworks, though I wonder if the fireworks were the only things “shooting off,” if you know what I mean. ;-) I remember a lot of things from my time in that awful room, but I can’t swear on them, ‘cause of the trauma and the drugs they gave me. There’s a stab wound on my shoulder that I don’t even remember, wooden shrapnel the doctors picked out of the other one. All of those are a blur. Memory is a hazy, unreliable thing, but I’m pretty damn sure I remember seeing little blood-bruises on Derek’s thighs. You’d recognize them, Tae, ‘cause I left them on you plenty of times._

_“Derek has a victim complex the size of Texas,” Carrie told me. “I thought he would grow out of it. And it’s not like I didn’t feel the same as he did sometimes. But he never matured past that point. Everything was always someone else’s fault. He couldn’t accept responsibility for anything. He thought everyone was out to get him. It got exhausting, and I couldn’t handle it.” She told me she wanted to break up with him, but lo and behold Reb came along, and Derek lost interest in pursuing a relationship with her. Problem solved, right?_

_So here comes Reb, Mr. Nihilism, Mr. “Everyone’s Out to Use Everybody.” I bet Derek bought into that hook, line, and sinker, considering his victim complex. I think they both resented the world at large for creating and then rejecting them. Tae, you may have nailed it when you called Reb a cult leader. He certainly managed to wrangle our little group of outcasts into his web. Jesse was ripe for manipulation, especially being the youngest. The only reason he stood up to me on Halloween is ‘cause he had leverage. Against Derek and Reb, he had nothing._

_The papers have talked a bit—but not enough—about Reb and Derek’s criminal pasts. We know Derek broke into a van his sophomore year and got slapped with a whole rap sheet: theft, criminal mischief, criminal trespassing. He served time in a juvenile diversion program and was eventually released early for “good behavior.” Reb, though… When he was 19, he was arrested for drugging and molesting a 15-year-old girl. He got five years' probation and one year in a work release camp. He was required to register as a sex offender. Reb was paroled from the work release camp two months early (these two are a match made in hell with their early releases, huh?), and I bet it was around that time he hooked up with Derek._

_The fact that they both raped me is a matter of public record, thanks to the charges filed against them. And I’m sure all the nasty details will be dragged out during the trial (fuck you Derek for not taking a plea deal). Before the first rape, I overheard Derek and Reb having a bit of a lover’s quarrel. Derek wanted to film the rape, but Reb was against it. I guess he didn’t want to get “production of child pornography” added on to his rap sheet, especially when he was already a convicted child molester and still on probation. Or maybe he was trying to protect Derek from a charge like that, though I doubt it; all of his protests were firmly centered around what would happen to him. _

_A good lawyer could make a case that they were boning each other, and an equally good lawyer could probably dismantle it. All of this is circumstantial, of course, and we’ll never know the whole truth until the trial—if the whole story even comes out at all. And I don’t think whether they were fucking each other plays into the “why” at all, except maybe offering an explanation on why they did it together: foreplay. You and me, Tae, we just smoke pot and grope each other through our clothes, but I guess when you’re really psycho you have to kidnap someone and torture them to get your rocks off. Derek even said he and Reb would blow my head open and skullfuck me. I guess it’s true what they say: the couple that slays together stays together._

_Except Derek’s throwing Reb under the bus to secure a sort-of insanity defense. Whatever happened to true love? :-P I doubt Reb and Derek ever had it; I think Reb was right on the money about his quid pro quo philosophy, at least where his relationship with Derek was concerned. They were using each other for a whole bunch of reasons, mutually assured destruction being one of them._

_And people said I was the crazy one? HA HA!_

* * *

_April 20th, 1999_

Syd has the house to himself during the day while Misty’s at work and Taehyun’s at school, though he sleeps in until around 11 a.m. He makes himself a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese—the shaped pasta always tastes better than the regular noodles. For extra flavor, he adds a few teaspoons of hot sauce. He grabs a Coke from the fridge, and sits on the couch. With the still-warm cooking pot in his lap, he switches on the TV and watches a few blocks of music videos on MTV until the phone rings. Syd manages to climb across the couch to the end table and answer by the fourth ring.

“Syd, Jesus Christ!” Carrie gasps, like she’s just finished running a marathon or is in the midst of a crying jag.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Derek.”

“Oh, fuck.” Syd snaps to attention, his heart in his throat. “He escaped?” He imagines waking up in the middle of the night with Derek standing in the corner of his room holding that shotgun.

“I guess that’s one way of putting it,” Carrie grouses. She sniffs. “He’s dead.”

It can’t be true, because it’s too _good_. “How’d it happen? What got him? Did he talk shit and get his skull caved in?” Syd hopes the rotten fucker suffered, that he felt even an iota of the terror Syd felt tied to that bed, and being hunted down like a lame deer.

Carrie says, “Suicide. The guards found him hanging in his cell this morning.”

Syd can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him. Maybe it’s cruel to take pleasure in this, but Derek was cruel enough for both of them, so it probably evens out. 

“God, Syd…” Carrie scolds as though Syd has admitted to killing Derek himself. 

“Don’t expect me to feel sorry for him. Derek and his psycho boyfriend kept me tied up for almost two days and tried to kill me. Maybe Reb will off himself too, and we’ll be done with the whole goddamn thing.”

“I know. It’s just… a sad story all around. I wish none of this had happened at all, and we could go back and be friends again, the six of us.”

Syd does the math in his head, and he’s warmed that she included Taehyun in that count. “Yeah, me too.” He’s sad for a moment, then a smile creeps across his face. He’s _free_. With Derek dead, there will be no trial, no dredging up of this awful affair in front of a courtoom, no constant media coverage of the case. All of them can grieve and put their lives back together in peace.

“You’re still at school?” Syd asks. Carrie says that she is. “Why don’t you skip and come over? We can blow noisemakers and raid my mom’s liquor cabinet.”

Carrie makes a sighing sound, like she’s caught between her own confusing ball of emotions and wanting to laugh along with Syd. “I really shouldn’t.”

“Tell me you’ll at least come to Tae’s birthday after school. We’re going to Casa Bonita.”

“Maybe, if you guys don’t mind one of my parents as a plus-one.”

“The more the merrier.”

After hanging up, Syd leaps from the couch and jumps around like a Publishers Clearing House winner in those goofy commercials. He’s whooping and cheering and probably looks absolutely ridiculous to any passers-by that might see him through the living room window. But he doesn’t care. He’s _fucking free_. 

A little while later, he drives into the city to James’ shop. James looks up at the sound of the bell, sees Syd and says, “Holy shit, dude! Good to see you again.” At first, Syd wonders if it’s really been that long since the last time he came here, then he remembers his picture has been all over the fucking news for the last month or so. 

“Yeah, it’s been… a time.”

“I can’t even imagine. I’m glad you’re up and about, at least.”

Syd nods. “You wouldn’t happen to have the new KMFDM, would you?” The group’s newest album _Adios_ just hit stores today.

James grins. “I saved a copy for you,” he says, reaching behind the counter and withdrawing the shrinkwrapped CD. 

“You fucking rule.” 

James doesn’t ask intrusive or insensitive questions about Syd’s experience, for which Syd is grateful. If he’s aware of Derek’s suicide, he doesn’t mention it. Syd appreciates this professionalism. Even his own fucking neighbors can’t keep their curiosity to themselves; he has run into too many nosy suburban moms who catch him at the mailbox or on a quick walk to the nearby 7-11, and every single one of them has to entrap him in a conversation about his experience and how they’re just “so devastated about the whole thing,” like it fucking affected them in any way. Pity comes cheap in the wake of a tragedy, Syd has discovered, and is much like a fart: you can tolerate your own, but you can’t stand anyone else’s. 

When he picks Taehyun up from school a few hours later, his good mood is palpable. He slows to a stop by the senior smoke-pit where Taehyun sits waiting. “Hey, hot stuff. Get in.”

Taehyun appears to have received the news, judging by his uneasy smile at Syd’s broad grin. Or maybe he’s tired of Syd’s faux ‘picking up a prostitute’ schtick. When he slides into the seat he says, “I guess you heard about Derek.”

“Sorry, babe, even you can’t make me feel sad about that rotten bag of dicks. He deserved way worse than he got, but if there’s a hell, the devil’s turning Derek into his own personal cocksleeve.”

Taehyun starts to say something, then stops, probably realizing Syd won’t listen.

“I know, I know, he was a person, he was our friend, yadda yadda yadda,” Syd goes on. “But after what he put me through, I think I’m allowed to dance on his grave a little.”

“Fine,” Taehyun says sourly. “Just don’t turn my birthday into a celebration of his death.”

“I think I can manage that.”

Misty, Syd, and Taehyun arrive at Casa Bonita around five. It’s not a big, grandiose affair with half the restaurant rented out and balloons tied to the chairs; they simply take a table and eat together. Carrie and Jesse arrive a little while later, both with a parent in tow to serve as chaperone. Jesse has brought his dad, a mustachioed tax accountant, while Carrie chose her mom. The parents seem to hit it off with Misty, bonding over their shared grief and horror at Syd’s ordeal.

“You must be a little relieved, huh?” Mrs. Brown asks Syd. Carrie groans and covers her face with her hands. “I’m just saying a trial would have been traumatic for everyone involved,” Mrs. Brown says to Carrie. “Including you.”

“It’s tragic all around,” Mr. Browsky says.

Syd notices Taehyun has been oddly quiet since the parents arrived. “Let’s maybe not focus on me today, okay?” Syd suggests, feeling nettled. “It’s Tae’s birthday. He should be the focus.” Syd wonders why he bothered coming at all; his presence here turns Taehyun’s birthday into a rubbernecking session.

“You’re right,” Misty says in her ‘I’m proud of you’ voice. “This is Taehyun’s day in the spotlight.”

Taehyun blushes under the attention. “We don’t have to talk only about me. I just prefer not to focus on sadness.”

The conversation shifts to the only subject adults seem capable of discussing around teenagers: college. “Carrie says you want to be a doctor,” Mrs. Brown tells him. “Do you have a college in mind?”

Taehyun opens his mouth, closes it, like he’s reconsidering something.

“MSU’s a great school,” Mr. Browsky adds. “If you want to stay local. But if your grades are good enough, you could get accepted anywhere.”

Taehyun glances at Syd as if he might have the answer to these questions. Syd offers a shrug. Taehyun admits, “I haven’t been thinking about it. Things have been so strange lately. Next year, I will concentrate more on applying to schools.” He sounds canned and nervous, as if put on the spot, and Syd wonders what’s up. 

This is the other parents’ first time meeting Taehyun, so they have plenty of questions for him. They ask how his time in America has been, what his hobbies are, what his life was like in South Korea: all subjects Syd and Misty have thoroughly plumbed. But Syd doesn’t mind the rehash; he finds it interesting to compare Taehyun’s answers now with his answers when he first arrived. And he’s more open now than he was during his first few weeks, giving longer, more vivid examples of his life back in Seoul. He explains how his mother was a traveling care worker, and how the family moved around almost yearly. 

“It was only a few years ago my mother decided to settle down in one place,” Taehyun says. “My father wanted to start a restaurant, so my mother became a seamstress. I was glad, because it meant I could stay in the same place for a while and have a chance at making friends.” His chipper tone takes a downturn. “But that didn’t happen…”

“You’ve got us, at least,” Carrie says to cheer him up.

Taehyun nods, his smile returning. “And Syd.”

Syd notes Carrie’s knowing smile, wonders if the bond between himself and Taehyun is visible to the parents as well. Probably not. People tend to see what they want to see.

A little while later, the teens explore the restaurant while the adults chat over bottomless margaritas. “This place is so cool!” Taehyun says as they walk around. In the middle of the restaurant is a cluster of enormous cliffs. Divers jump from the high promontory to the pool of water below. Off to the far left is an arcade, laden with skill games and flashing neon lights. 

“Oh my God, that bear is adorable!” Carrie points to a sombrero-wearing plush bear hanging from the prize counter wall. Taehyun sees it too and makes a gasping noise.

“Sorry, Carrie. Tae’s the birthday boy,” Syd says. He looks at Taehyun. “You want it?”

Taehyun blushes. “If—if it’s not too much trouble.”

“What trouble? They’ve got a shooting game. Easy-peasy.”

Syd gets some change from the nearby machine and feeds quarters into the shooting gallery game. It’s ridiculously easy, especially after his life-or-death aiming in the school library. After thirty minutes, he racks up enough tickets for the bear. Wearing a grin Syd would gladly take a bullet for, Taehyun carries the plush out of the arcade.

“How does it feel being seventeen?” Jesse asks him. 

“According to Korean tradition, I became one year older on _Seollal_ —that’s our new year. So I’ve been seventeen for a while.”

“This fucker is always trying to get one up on me,” Syd jokes, ruffling Taehyun’s hair. His natural color is growing out significantly, giving his hair a unique two-tone appearance: black on top, brown on the bottom. “I think he’s just horny for an age gap between us.”

“Age is a weird concept when you think about it,” Carrie says.

“Says the person who wants to bang Sharon Stone,” Jesse jokes.

Carrie gives him a playful shove. “Oh, like you wouldn’t? She’s hot.” 

They return to their table for honey-drizzled sopaipillas. Taehyun licks honey and powdered sugar off his fingers, and Syd pops a boner under the table at the sight. Carrie gives him a knowing look, which makes Syd flush red and grow even harder. 

“I see you won a prize,” Mrs. Brown says, referring to Taehyun’s plush bear. 

“Syd won it for me,” Taehyun says proudly. “He is incredible at shooting games. When I first came to America, we went to an amusement park, and Syd won a prize for me.”

“It’s kind of our thing,” Syd jokes. “And I’ll take any opportunity to show off.”

By seven, Carrie and Jesse take their leave; their parents insist they ought to get home, as it’s a school night. Syd wonders if that’s a dig at his own absences, like these parents resent the special treatment afforded to him so he can clock out for the remainder of the school year. But Taehyun is too kind to assume any passive-aggressive digs are intended; he thanks them for coming, even hugs Jesse and Carrie before they leave. 

At home, they head down to the basement to smoke Taehyun’s birthday bowl. Syd puts on the new KMFDM album while they smoke, and tells Taehyun about his trip to James’ shop. Taehyun becomes introspective and quiet when he smokes, preferring to listen rather than converse. When Syd runs out of topics to talk about, they watch Pink Floyd’s _The Wall_ , which Taehyun has heard about but never seen. It’s the perfect video to watch while high, especially for Taehyun, who loves animation and Pink Floyd.

“This is so weird,” Taehyun says. “I feel like I’m on drugs.”

“You _are_.”

Taehyun snickers before devolving into full-throated laughter. The sound of it makes Syd laugh too. Taehyun’s slumped against Syd for the second half of the film. Syd slinks an arm around Taehyun’s waist.

Much later, the night is still. They’re cuddled in Taehyun’s bed, surrounded by his collection of stuffed animals, to which the sombrero bear has been added. Taehyun’s hair is still damp from the shower; he smells fresh and clean, a crisp lemon-lime aroma that smells like Sprite tastes. The thought of licking it off Taehyun’s skin assails Syd’s erection; his dick is tight and solid against Taehyun’s thigh, and he wants to grind into it, to rub out this troublesome boner.

“You seem kind of”—Syd searches for the word—” _off_ lately. Is something wrong?” He can’t shake how strange it is that Taehyun doesn’t have at least a safety school picked out by now. For someone who once bragged about how meticulously he plans for the future, that seems out of character.

“I’ve been thinking…” Taehyun says.

“Oh, that explains it.” Syd runs a hand up and down Taehyun’s arm, trying to soothe him.

“I don’t know if I want to be a doctor anymore.” He admits this as though it’s a grave secret. 

“Like you said, people change.”

“But I don’t know what I want in place of it. When I came here, I felt like… a composite of what everyone told me I was. My taste in music was the only rebellion I could have. And my hair, I guess. I dyed it before I came here to blend in, or at least that’s what I told my parents. I said I didn’t want to stick out. But really I wanted to make a change for myself.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you look hot no matter what.”

Taehyun settles against him, perhaps comforted by his humor. “So I came here with all these ideas of what I was supposed to be, and over time, you helped me discover the real Taehyun hiding underneath everything my parents told me I was.”

“Me?” Syd can’t imagine being a strong influence on anyone’s life, at least in a positive way.

“Of course. I wanted to be confident and unafraid of being myself. Like you.”

_You never know just how you look through other people’s eyes_ , Syd thinks, recalling a line from a Butthole Surfers’ song. “I always figured you thought I was a loser.”

“No way,” Taehyun says, snuggling closer. “I’m grateful you helped me discover who I am, but that means I don’t know what kind of life to make for myself.”

“Well, you’ve got plenty of time to figure it out. I don’t know how they do it over there, but here we sometimes take gap years in between high school and college. Usually for travel and seeing the world. Or you could just get a job and see where that goes. College isn’t everything.”

“I do have an idea, though I doubt you’ll like it.”

“What, you’re gonna break up with me and go on all the talk shows? ‘I dated the Tanner High shooting victim! Ex-boyfriend tells all!’”

Taehyun snickers, his nose doing an adorable scrunchy thing. “No, never. I was thinking about going back home and getting my military service out of the way, if I haven’t figured out what I want to do by this time next year.”

Syd’s smile falters, but he doesn’t want Taehyun adjusting his life choices based on Syd’s dumb emotions. Syd will probably be in college (community or university) by then, and will have plenty to occupy his time and mind while Taehyun’s away. At least, he _hopes_. “Sounds like a plan.”

“I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

“I’m not over the moon about it, but it’s probably a good idea. Y’know, objectively.” He offers a weak smile.

“But it means leaving you, and after this…” Taehyun blows out a sweet sigh, his breath minty. “I’m worried.”

“You think I fought for my fucking life in that school just to off myself?” Syd laughs. “Look, I don’t understand a lot of what goes on in my brain, but I don’t think I was ever serious about killing myself. Half the time I was just joking, and the other half…” He takes a moment to gather his thoughts. “Yeah, sometimes I used it to manipulate people. I’ll admit it. And sometimes it was just… knowing I had a way out—even if that way was permanent and pretty dumb—made me feel less like I was trapped. For all my talk, I never tried.”

“When you made that phone call,” Taehyun starts, trepidatious. “Your mom really thought you would do it. Even I thought so.”

For Syd, that phone call is the worst part of the whole ordeal. He can handle flashbacks to his time in the school or being tied to Reb’s bed, but remembering how easily he’d been able to make his mother believe he was killing himself makes his entire body wince. “I know. And I’ll never be sorry enough.” The first thing he said to his mother after waking up in the hospital was how sorry he was for the whole thing. She blew it off, claiming she was just so happy he was alive and well, but he could see in her eyes that the call had cut deep. 

Taehyun cuddles closer, his thigh pressing into Syd’s erection. Syd groans like he’s been kneed in the balls. Taehyun glances down. “Oh. Sorry.” He gives Syd a soft squeeze through the fabric of his pajamas. Syd mewls.

“It’s your birthday, dude,” Syd says. “You should be the one getting a hand job.”

Taehyun giggles, his hand still squeezing and stroking. “Will you fuck me?” he says, like he’s unsure what it means, but the way he bites his lip afterwards betrays him.

Syd grunts and shifts in Taehyun’s hand. His cock swells, the head almost surely as red as Taehyun’s cheeks. “Fuck, I’m rock-hard just hearing you talk about it.”

When Taehyun rolls onto his stomach and grinds his dick into the mattress, Syd gets the message. Syd has taken to storing supplies in both bedrooms for this exact purpose, and he gets both of them naked and prepared in short order. He’s messy, and the lube is all over Taehyun’s ass, dripping onto his thighs, his pubes, and probably the sheets too. Taehyun squirms in anticipation, clutching a pillow like he usually does when they fuck like this. He’s wearing a condom, because last time they did this he jizzed all over the sheets and the Keroppi plush he’d been grabbing onto for dear life. Syd found it hot as fuck, but Taehyun complained about the clean-up. 

Sinking into Taehyun always makes Syd feel like he’s on the edge, and it’s no different now. He has to pause for a bit, take a breath or three to give his cock a little more time to stay in the game. Taehyun makes a bright little “aah!” sound that makes Syd’s toes curl. Taehyun’s knees slide over the sheets, and he pushes his hips back, trying to spur Syd on. Syd creates a sloppy rhythm, and Taehyun’s making sultry noises behind his closed lips. “You can get loud,” Syd tells him, “but not too loud.” Taehyun squirms and moans a little louder; his sounds have a breathy, needy quality to them that Syd finds incredibly sexy.

Syd clutches Taehyun’s hips to hold him steady while he shoves in, and Taehyun’s groaning, “Harder, harder, more, please.” Syd’s ready for it; when Taehyun’s on his knees, he likes their sex to be somewhat combative, almost like a punishment. Syd gives him what he asks for, gripping the headboard for leverage, and Taehyun rocks his hips back and forth, frantic now. Each shove sends shockwaves along Syd’s spine, the muscles in his groin pulling tighter and tighter. He groans, and Taehyun moans a long, shaky noise. He’s close, Syd can always tell by that waver in his voice. 

The headboard rattles, and Taehyun bites down on a sharp whine when he comes. It’s all-encompassing, and Syd’s orgasm hits hard and fast like a boxer’s jab. Taehyun yelps at the hot gush inside of him, his hips still twitching, then Syd’s pulling out to paint his ass and the backs of his thighs. Taehyun slumps onto the bed and squeezes his thighs together. 

Syd settles back on his heels to catch his breath. “We should’ve saved the smoking ‘til now,” he sighs. “I could use a cigarette.”

Taehyun’s moaning in contentment. “You got me all dirty.” Syd decides to remedy this by licking up the mess on Taehyun’s backside. Taehyun jumps a little when Syd’s tongue touches his skin. “Gross.”

“I swallow when I blow you. How is this so different?”

“It’s yours,” Taehyun says, but he offers no further complaint until Syd’s tongue travels in a long lick from his balls to his leaking hole. “Stop!” He writhes, his hips both seeking Syd’s tongue and pulling away from it. “You’re gross.” 

Syd thinks about teasing him— _you liked it the first time_ —but just because Taehyun came doesn’t mean he enjoyed it; after all, Syd orgasmed when he was raped. Sobered, Syd eases back and says, “Sorry.”

They clean up in the hall bathroom. Under the harsh light, Syd’s right nipple is garish, and he can see Taehyun struggling not to look at it. “You won’t turn to stone if you look,” Syd jokes. “It’s okay.” Taehyun glances at Syd’s chest, his expression crumpling at the sight of the scar and lingering bruises. “Just pretend I had half a boob job.”

Taehyun tries to smile, but it doesn’t stick. He raises a hand like he wants to touch it. “Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes. Mostly nerve pain.” During random periods of the day, he has been assailed by sharp twinges in his right nipple as the nerves reconnect. It feels like an inside-out itch. “Overall it’s just kind of numb, but not the kind of numbness that hurts, like when your leg falls asleep. There’s just… no feeling.”

Taehyun touches a gentle finger to Syd’s nipple. Immediately, Syd pretends that it hurts, twisting away and groaning theatrically. Taehyun jerks his hand back as if he’s been burned, then his shocked expression morphs into a scowl when Syd cackles madly. Taehyun swears at him in Korean and storms out, which only makes Syd laugh harder, though he muffles the sound for the sake of his mother asleep down the hall. 

Taehyun has forgiven him when Syd returns to the bed a few minutes later. Syd loves cuddling, as unmanly as that may make him sound. He winds his arms around Taehyun’s waist, burying his nose in the sweet scent of Taehyun’s hair.

“Why don’t we go to the water park when school’s out?” Syd suggests, right at the shell of Taehyun’s ear, making him shiver. “Since you kinda got screwed out of a real spring break.”

Taehyun turns over so he can look at Syd. “You said public pools are just huge germ baths.”

“You read my fucking journal. You know I couldn’t tell you ‘I’m afraid I’ll pop a boner when I see you in a bathing suit.’”

Taehyun laughs. “I know. I just like messing with you.”

“I guess that’s something I’m into,” Syd says, nudging his erection against Taehyun’s hip.

After Taehyun falls asleep, Syd lies awake, looking forward to the water park, to his first summer with Taehyun as his boyfriend, even to his senior year of high school. They still have time before things change, and, as Syd has learned this year, anything can happen.

At last, he’s thinking about the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading! I had so much fun writing this story and creating these characters. I plan on writing a few AUs featuring Syd and Tae, so please subscribe if you want to read more about them (as well as other original works I'll be posting in the future). Thank you for your comments and kudos and bookmarks. <3


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